J48th 

1903 


HvVjW 


•&> 


OF  .THE 

UNIVCRS  ITY 

or  ILLINOIS 


823 
J  48th 
1903 


<  * 


\JLsV\X& 


O/  ’ 

'T /i.  & . ?  y  ’£> . 


-7 


/To  3 


'■  I 


Jerome  K.  Jerome 


Ubree  flften  in  a  JGoat 


®e 

J.  ft.  Jerome 


Chicago 


/ID.  a.  ©onobue  &  Co. 

407*420  Dearborn  St. 


J  V 


Has 

THREE  MEN  IN  A  BOAT 

(TO  SAY  NOTHING  OP  THE  DOG) 


CHAPTER  I. 

There  were  four  of  us — George,  and  William 
Samuel  Harris,  and  myself,  and  Montmorency. 
We  were  sitting  in  my  room,  smoking  and  talking 
about  how  bad  we  were — bad  from  a  medical 
point  of  view  I  mean,  of  course. 

We  were  all  feeling  seedy,  and  we  were  getting 
quite  nervous  about  it.  Harris  said  he  felt  suck 
extraordinary  fits  of  giddiness  come  over  him  at 
times,  that  he  hardly  knew  what  he  was  doing; 
and  then  George  said  that  he  had  fits  of  giddiness 
too,  and  hardly  knew  what  he  was  doing.  With 
me,  it  was  my  liver  that  was  out  of  order.  I  knew 
it  was  my  liver  that  was  out  of  order,  because  I 
had  just  been  reading  a  patent  liver-pill  circular, 
in  which  were  detailed  the  various  symptoms  by 
which  a  man  could  tell  when  his  liver  was  cut  of 
order.  I  had  them  all. 


6 


Shvce  #Xjeu  itt  a 


It  is  a  most  extraordinary  thing,  but  I  never 
read  a  patent  medicine  advertisement  without  be¬ 
ing  impelled  to  the  conclusion  that  I  am  suffering 
from  the  particular  disease  therein  dealt  with,  in 
its  most  virulent  form.  The  diagnosis  seems  in 
every  case  to  correspond  exactly  with  all  the  sen¬ 
sations  that  I  have  ever  felt. 

I  remember  going  to  the  British  Museum  one 
day  to  read  up  the  treatment  for  some  slight  ail¬ 
ment  of  which  I  had  a  touch — hay  fever,  I  fancy 
it  was.  I  got  down  the  book,  and  read  all  I  came 
to  read;  and  then,  in  an  unthinking  moment,  I 
idly  turned  the  leaves,  and  began  to  indolently 
study  diseases  generally.  I  forget  which  was  the 
first  distemper  I  plunged  into — some  fearful,  de¬ 
vastating  scourge,  I  know — and,  before  I  had 
glanced  half  down  the  list  of  “premonitory  symp¬ 
toms, v  it  was  borne  in  upon  me  that  I  had  fairly 
got  it. 

I  sat  for  a  while,  frozen  with  horror;  and  then 
in  the  listlessness  of  despair,  I  again  turned  over 
the  pages.  I  came  to  typhoid  fever — read  the 
symptoms — discovered  that  I  had  typhoid  fever, 
must  have  had  it  for  months  without  knowing  it 
— wondered  what  else  I  had  got;  turned  up  St. 
Vitus’s  Dance — found,  as  I  had  expected,  that  I 
had  that  too — began  to  get  interested  in  my  case, 
and  determined  to  sift  it  to  the  bottom,  and  so 


g&ro  in  a  |£krat. 


1 


started  alphabetically — read  up  ague,  and  learned 
that  I  was  sickening  for  it,  aijd  that  the  acute 
stage  would  commence  in  about  another  fort¬ 
night.  Bright’s  disease,  I  was  relieved  to  find,  I 
had  only  in  a  modified  form,  and,  so  far  as  that 
was  concerned,  I  might  live  for  years.  Cholera 
T  had,  with  severe  complications;  and  diphtheria 
I  seemed  to  have  been  born  with.  I  plodded  con¬ 
scientiously  through  the  twenty-six  letters,  and 
the  only  malady  I  could  conclude  I  had  not  got 
was  housemaid’s  knee. 

I  felt  rather  hurt  about  this  at  first;  it  seemed 
somehow  to  be  a  sort  of  slight.  Why  hadn’t  I 
got  housemaid’s  knee?  Why  this  invidious  res¬ 
ervation?  After  a  while,  however,  less  grasping 
feelings  prevailed.  I  reflected  that  I  had  every 
other  known  malady  in  the  pharmacology,  and 
grew  less  selfish,  and  determined  to  do  without 
housemaid’s  knee.  Gout,  in  its  most  malignant 
stage,  it  woufd  appear,  had  seized  me  without  my 
being  aware  of  it;  and  zymosis  I  had  evidently 
been  suffering  with  from  boyhood.  There  were 
no  more  diseases  after  zymosis,  so  I  concluded 
there  was  nothing  else  the  matter  with  me. 

I  sat  and  pondered.  I  thought  what  an  inter¬ 
esting  case  I  must  be  from  a  medical  point  of 
view,  what  an  acquisition  I  should  be  to  a  class! 
Students  would  have  no  need  to  “walk  the  hospi- 


8 


£Tx\*cc  U&etx  itx  a  goat. 


tals,’7  if  they  had  me.  I  was  a  hospital  in  myself. 
All  they  need  do  would  be  to  walk  round  me,  and, 
after  that,  take  their  diploma. 

Then  I  wondered  how  long  I  had  to  live.  I 
tried  to  examine  myself.  I  felt  my  pulse.  1 
could  not  at  first  feel  any  pulse  at  all.  Then,  all 
of  a  sudden,  it  seemed  to  start  off.  I  pulled  out 
my  watch  and  timed  it.  I  made  a  hundred  and 
forty-seven  to  the  minute.  I  tried  to  feel  my 
heart.  I  could  not  feel  my  heart.  It  had  stopped 
beating.  I  have  since  been  induced  to  come  to 
the  opinion  that  it  must  have  been  there  all  the 
time,  and  must  have  been  beating,  but  I  cannot 
account  for  it.  I  patted  myself  all  over  my  front, 
from  what  I  call  my  waist  up  to  my  head,  and  I 
went  a  bit  round  each  side,  and  a  little  way  up  the 
back.  But  I  could  not  feel  or  hear  anything.  I 
tried  to  look  at  my  tongue.  I  stuck  it  out  as  far 
as  ever  it  would  go,  and  I  shut  one  eye,  and  tried 
to  examine  it  with  the  other.  I  could  only  see 
the  tip,  and  the  only  thing  that  I  could  gain  from 
that  was  to  feel  more  certain  than  before  that  I 
had  scarlet  fever. 

I  had  walked  into  that  reading-room  a  happy, 
healthy  man.  I  crawled  out  a  decrepit  wreck. 

I  went  to  my  medical  man.  He  is  an  old  chum 
of  mine,  and  feels  my  pulse,  and  looks  at  my 
tongue,  and  talks  about  the  weather,  all  for  noth- 


gfcvxe  gfcm  in  a  goal. 


9 


mg,  when  I  fancy  I’m  ill;  so  I  thought  I  would  do 
him  a  good  turn  by  going  to  him  now.  “What  a 
doctor  wants,”  I  said,  “is  practice.  He  shall  have 
me.  He  will  get  more  practice  out  of  me  than 
out  of  seventeen  hundred  of  your  ordinary,  com¬ 
monplace  patients,  with  only  one  or  two  diseases 
each.”  So  I  went  straight  up  and  saw  him,  and 
he  said: 

“Well,  what’s  the  matter  with  you?” 

I  said: 

“I  will  not  take  up  your  time,  dear  boy,  with 
telling  you  what  is  the  matter  with  me.  Life  is 
brief,  and  you  might  pass  away  before  I  had  fin¬ 
ished.  But  I  will  tell  you  what  is  not  the  matter 
with  me.  I  have  not  got  housemaid’s  knee.  Why 
I  have  not  got  housemaid’s  knee,  I  cannot  tell 
you;  but  the  fact  remains  that  I  have  not  got  it.. 
Every thing  else,  however,  I  have  got.” 

And  I  told  him  how  I  came  to  discover  it  all. 

Then  he  opened  me  and  looked  down  me,  and 
clutched  hold  of  my  wrist,  and  then  he  hit  me  over 
the  chest  when  I  wasn’t  expecting  it — a  cowardly 
thing  to  do,  I  call  it— and  immediately  afterward 
butted  me  with  the  side  of  his  head.  After  that, 
he  sat  down  and  wrote  out  a  prescription,  and 
folded -it  up  and  gave  it  me,  and  I  put  it  in  my 
pocket  and  went  out. 

I  did  not  open  it.  I  took  it  to  the  nearest  chem- 


10 


gkxiu  gtm  in  a  gjtesxt 


ist’s,  and  handed  it  in.  The  mum  res4  it,  and 
then  handed  it  back. 

He  said  he  didn’t  keep  it. 

I  said: 

“You  are  a  chemist?” 

“I  am  a  chemist.  If  I  was  a  co-operative  stare 
and  family  hotel  combined,  I  might  be  able  t* 
oblige  you.  Being  only  a  chemist  haaspors  me,*' 

I  read  the  prescription.  It  ran : 

“i  lb.  beefsteak,  with 
i  pt  bitter  beer 

every  6  hours. 

i  ten-mile  walk  every  morning. 

I  bed  at  1 1  sharp  every  night 

And  don’t  stuff  up  your  head  with  things  you 
don’t  understand.” 

I  followed  the  directions,  with  the  happy  result 
— speaking  for  myself — that  my  life  was  pre¬ 
served  and  is  still  going  on. 

In  the  present  instance,  going  back  to  the  liver- 
pill  circular,  I  had  the  symptoms,  beyond  all  mis¬ 
take,  the  chief  among  them  being  “a  general  dis¬ 
inclination  to  work  of  any  kind.” 

What  I  suffer  in  that  way  no  tongue  can  tell. 
From  my  earliest  infancy  I  have  been  a  martyr  to 
it.  As  a  boy,  the  disease  hardly  ever  left  me  for  a 
day.  They  did  not  know,  then,  that  it  was  my 


gto&e  H&etx  in  a  goat. 


11 


layer.  Medical  science  was  in  a  far  less  advanced 
state  than  now,  and  they  used  to  put  it  down 
laziness. 

“Why,  you  skulking  little  devil,  you,7’  they 
would  say,  “get  up  and  do  something  for  your 
living,  can’t  you?” — not  knowing,  of  course,  that 
I  was  ill. 

And  they  didn’t  give  me  pills;  they  gave  me 
clumps  on  the  side  of  the  head.  And,  strange  as 
it  may  appear,  those  clumps  on  the  head  often 
cured  me — for  the  time  being.  I  have  known  one 
dump  on  the  head  have  more  effect  upon  my 
fiver,  and  make  me  feel  more  anxious  to  go 
straight  away  then  and  there  and  do  what  was 
wanted  to  be  done,  without  further  loss  of  time, 
than  a  whole  box  of  pills  does  now. 

You  know  it  often  is  so — those  simple,  old- 
fashioned  remedies  are  sometimes  more  effica¬ 
cious  than  all  the  dispensary  stuff. 

We  sat  there  for  half  an  hour,  describing  to  each 
other  our  maladies.  I  explained  to  George  and 
William  Harris  how  I  felt  when  I  got  up  in  the 
morning,  and  W’illiam  Harris  told  us  how  he  felt 
when  he  went  to  bed;  and  George  stood  on  the 
hearth-rug  and  gave  us  a  clever  and  powerful 
piece  of  acting,  illustrative  of  how  he  felt  in  the 
aight 


12 


ghvee  2*%ctt  in  a  gloat. 


George  fancies  he  is  ill;  but  there's  never  any¬ 
thing  really  the  matter  with  him,  you  know. 

At  this  point  Mrs.  Poppets  knocked  at  the  door 
to  know  if  we  were  ready  for  supper.  We  smiled 
sadly  at  one  another  and  said  we  supposed  we  had 
better  try  to  swallow  a  bit.  Harris  said  a  little 
something  in  one’s  stomach  often  kept  the  disease 
in  check,  and  Mrs.  Poppets  brought  the  tray  in 
and  we  drew  up  to  the  table  and  toyed  with  a  little 
steak  and  onions  and  some  rhubarb  tart. 

I  must  have  been  very  weak  at  the  time;  be¬ 
cause  I  know,  after  the  first  half-hour  or  so,  I 
seemed  to  take  no  interest  whatever  in  my  food — • 
an  unusual  thing  for  me — and  I  didn't  want  any 
cheese. 

This  duty  done,  we  refilled  our  glasses,  lit  our 
pipes,  and  resumed  the  discussion  upon  our  state 
of  health.  What  it  was  that  was  actually  the  mat¬ 
ter  with  us,  we  none  of  us  could  be  sure  of,  but 
the  unanimous  opinion  was  that  it — whatever 
it  was — had  been  brought  bn  by  overwork.  * 

“What  we  want  is  rest,”  said  Harris. 

“Rest  and  a  complete  change,”  said  George. 
“The  overstrain  upon  our  brains  has  produced  a 
general  depression  throughout  the  system 
Change  of  scene  and  absence  of  the  necessity  for 
thought  will  restore  the  mental  equilibrium.” 

George  has  a  cousin,  who  is  usually  described 


'gftKM  *XXm  in  a  goat. 


18 


in  the  charge-sheet  as  a  medical  student,  so  that 
he  naturally  has  a  somewhat  family-physicianary 
way  of  putting  things. 

I  agreed  with  George,  and  suggested  that  we 
should  seek  out  some  retired  and  old-world  spot, 
far  from  the  maddening  crowd,  and  dream  away 
a  sunny  week  among  its  drowsy  lanes — some  half- 
forgotten  nook,  hidden  away  by  the  fairies,  out 
of  reach  of  the  noisy  world — some  quaint-perched 
eyrie  on  the  cliffs  of  Time,  from  whence  the 
surging  waves  of  the  nineteenth  century  would 
sound  far  off  and  faint. 

Harris  said  he  thought  it  would  be  humpy.  He 
said  he  knew  the  sort  of  place  I  meant;  where 
everybody  went  to  bed  at  eight  o’clock,  and  you 
could’t  get  a  Referee  for  love  or  money,  and  had 
to  walk  ten  miles  to  get  your  baccy. 

“No,”  said  Harris,  “if  you  want  rest  and  change 
you  can't  beat  a  sea  trip." 

I  objected  to  the  sea  trip  strongly.  A  sea  trip 
does  you  good  when  you  are  going  to  have  a 
couple  of  months,  but,  for  a  week,  it  is  wicked. 

You  start  on  Monday  with  the  idea  implanted 
in  your  bosom  that  you  are  going  to  enjoy  your¬ 
self.  You  wave  an  airy  adieu  to  the  bovs  on 
shore,  light  your  biggest  pipe,  and  swagger  about 
the  deck  as  if  you  were  Captain  Cook,  Sir  Fran¬ 
cis  Drake,  and  Christopher  Columbus  all  rolled 


14 


gTxtteje  pCett  in  a  Jlcrat. 


into  one.  On  Tuesday  you  wish  you  hadn’t  come. 
On  Wednesday,  Thursday,  and  Friday  you  wi3-fe 
you  were  dead.  On  Saturday  you  are  able  to  swal¬ 
low  a  little  beef  tea  and  to  sit  up  on  deck  and  an¬ 
swer  with  a  wan,  sweet  smile  when  kind-hearted 
people  ask  you  how  you  feel  now.  On  Sunday 
you  begin  to  walk  about  again  and  take  solid  food. 
And  on  Monday  morning,  as,  with  your  bag  and 
umbrella  in  your  hand,  you  stand  by  the  gunwale, 
waiting  to  step  ashore,  you  begin  to  thoroughly 
like  it. 

I  remember  my  brother-in-law  going  for  a 
short  sea  trip  once  for  the  benefit  of  his  health. 
He  took  a  return  berth  from  London  to  Liver  - 
fx>ol,  and  when  he  got  to  Liverpool  the  only 
thing  he  was  anxious  about  was  to  sell  that  return 
ticket. 

It  was  offered  round  the  town  at  a  tremendous 
reduction,  so  I  am  told,  and  was  eventually  sold 
for  eighteenpence  to  a  bilious-looking  youth  who 
had  just  been  advised  by  his  medical  men  to  go 
to  the  sea-side  and  take  exercise. 

“Seaside!”  said  my  brother-in-law,  pressing  the 
ticket  affectionately  into  his  hand;  “why,  you’ll 
have  enough  to  last  you  a  lifetime;  and  as  for 
exercise!  why,  you’ll  get  more  exercise  sitting 
down  on  that  ship  than  you  would  turning  somer¬ 
saults  on  dry  land.” 


i 


gtuw  gK-jcn  in  a 


15 


He  himself — my  brother-in-law — came  back  by 
tram.  He  said  the  Northwestern  Railway  was 
healthy  enough  for  him. 

Another  fellow  I  knew  went  for  a  week’s  voy¬ 
age  round  the  coast,  and  before  they  started  the 
steward  came  to  him  to  ask  whether  he  would  pay 
for  each  meal  as  he  had  it  or  arrange  beforehand 
for  the  whole  series. 

The  steward  recommended  the  latter  course,  as 
it  would  come  so  much  cheaper.  He  said  they 
would  do  him  for  the  whole  week  at  two  pounds 
five.  He  said  for  breakfast  there  would  be  fish, 
followed  by  a  grill  Lunch  was  at  one,  and  con¬ 
sisted  of  four  courses.  Dinner  at  six — soup,  fish, 
entree,  joint,  poultry,  salad,  sweets,  cheese,  and 
dessert.  And  a  light  meat  supper  at  ten. 

My  friend  thought  he  would  close  on  the  two- 
pound-five  job  (he  is  a  hearty  eater),  and  did  so. 

Lunch  came  just  as  they  were  off  Sheerness. 
He  didn’t  feel  so  hungry  as  he  thought  he  should, 
and  so  contented  himself  with  a  bit  of  broiled  beef 
and  some  strawberries  and  cream.  He  pondered 
a  good  deal  during  the  afternoon,  and  at  one  time 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  been  eating  nothing 
but  broiled  beef  for  weeks,  and  at  other  times  it 
seemed  that  he  must  have  been  living  on  straw¬ 
berries  and  cream  for  years. 

Neither  the  beef  nor  the  strawberries  and  cream 


16 


Qlxxzz  gtXm  irx  <x  gxral. 


seemed  happy,  either — seemed  discontented  like. 

At  six  they  came  and  told  him  dinner  was 
ready.  The  announcement  aroused  no  enthusi¬ 
asm  within  him,  but  he  felt  that  there  was  some 
of  that  two-pound-five  to  be  worked  off,  and  he 
held  on  to  ropes  and  things  and  went  down.  A 
pleasant  odor  of  onions  and  hot  ham,  mingled, 
with  fried  fish  and  greens,  greeted  him  at  the  bot¬ 
tom  of  the  ladder;  and  then  the  steward  came 
up  with  an  oily  smile  and  said: 

“What  can  I  get  you,  sir?” 

“Get  me  out  of  this,”  was  the'  feeble  reply. 

And  they  ran  him  up  quick  and  propped  him 
over  to  leeward  and  left  him. 

For  the  next  four  days  he  lived  a  simple  and 
blameless  life  on  thin  captain’s  biscuits  (I  mean 
that  the  biscuits  were  thin,  not  the  captain)  and 
soda  water;  but  toward  Saturday  he  got  uppish 
and  went  in  for  weak  tea  and  dry  toast,  and  on 
Monday  he  was  gorging  himself  on  chicken  broth. 
He  left  the  ship  on  Tuesday,  and  as  it  steamed 
away  from  the  landing  stage  he  gazed  after  it 
regretfully. 

“There  she  goes,”  he  said;  “there  she  goes,  with 
two  pounds’  worth  of  food  on  board  that  belongs 
to  me,  and  that  I  haven’t  had.” 

He  said  that  if  they  had  given  him  another  day 
he  thought  he  could  have  put  it  straight. 


$  live*  men  in  a  ^crat. 


17 


So  I  set  my  face  against  the  sea  trip.  Not, 
as  I  explained,  upon  my  own  account.  I  was 
never  queer.  But  I  was  afraid  for  George. 
George  said  he  should  be  all  right  and  would 
rather  like  it,  but  he  would  advise  Harris  and  me 
not  to  think  of  it,  as  he  felt  sure  we  should  both 
be  ill.  Harris  said  that,  to  himself,  it  was  always 
a  mystery  how  people  managed  to  get  sick  at  sea 
- — said  he  thought  people  must  do  it  on  purpose, 
from  affectation — said  he  had  often  wished  to  be, 
but  had  never  been  able. 

Then  he  told  us  anecdotes  of  how  lie  had  gone 
across  the  Channel  when  it  was  so  rough  that  the 
passengers  had  to  be  tied  into  their  berths,  and 
he  and  the  captain  were  the  only  two  living  souls 

X 

on  board  who  were  not  ill.  Sometimes  it  was 
he  and  the  second  mate  who  were  not  ill;  but  it 
was  generally  he  and  one  other  man.  If  not  he 
and  another  man,  then  it  was  he  by  himself. 

It  is  a  curious  fact,  but  nobody  ever  is  seasick 
— on  land.  At  sea  you  come  across  plenty  of  peo¬ 
ple  very  bad  indeed,  whole  boat-loads  of  them; 
but  I  never  met  a  man  yet,  on  land,  who  had  ever 
known  at  all  what  it  was  to  be  seasick.  Where 
the  thousands  upon  thousands  of  bad  sailors  that 
swarm  in  every  ship  hide  themselves  when  they 
are  on  land  is  a  mystery. 

If  most  men  were  like  a  fellow  1  saw  on  the 


18 


H&jetx  in  a  ||oai 


Yarmouth  boat  one  day  I  could  account  fov  the 
seeming  enigma  easily  enough.  It  was  just  off 
Southend  Pier,  I  recollect,  and  he  was  leaning 
©ul  through  one  of  the  port-holes  in  a  very  dan¬ 
gerous  position.  I  went  up  to  him  to  try  and  save 
him. 

‘'Hi!  come  further  in,”  I  said,  shaking  him  by 
*he  shoulder.  “You’ll  be  overboard.” 

“Oh  my!  I  wish  I  was,”  was  the  only  answer 
I  could  get;  and  there  I  had  to  leave  him. 

Three  weeks  afterward  I  met  him  in  the  ccffee- 
oom  of  a  Bath  hotel,  talking  about  his  voyages, 
,Uid  explaining,  with  enthusiasm,  how  he  loved 
ihe  sea. 

“Good  sailor!”  he  replkd  in  answer  to  a  mild 
young  man’s  envious  query;  “well,  I  did  feel  a 
little  queer  once,  I  confess.  It  was  off  Cape  Horn. 
The  vessel  was  wrecked  the  next  morning.” 

I  said: 

“Weren’t  you  a  little  shaky  by  Southend  Pier 
^ne  day,  and  wanted  to  be  thrown  overboard?” 

“Southend  Pier?”  he  replied,  with  a  puzzled  ex¬ 
pression. 

“Yes;  going  down  to  Yarmouth,  last  Friday 
fhree  weeks.” 

“Oh,  ah — yes,”  he  answered,  brightening  up;  “I 
remember  now.  I  did  have  a  headache  that  after¬ 
noon.  It  was  the  pickles,  you  know?.  They  were 


Q\xxi cje  IJtXcrt  in  a  gkrat. 


19 


the  most  disgraceful  pickles  I  ever  tasted  in  a 
respectable  boat.  Did  you  have  any?” 

For  myself,  I  have  discovered  an  excellent  pre¬ 
ventive  against  sea-sickness,  in  balancing  myself. 
You  stand  in  the  center  of  the  deck,  and,  as  the 
ship  heaves  and  pitches,  you  move  your  body 
about  so  as  to  keep  it  always  straight.  When  the 
front  of  the  ship  rises  you  lean  forward,  till  the 
deck  almost  touches  your  nose,  and  when  its 
back  end  gets  up  you  lean  backward.  This  is  all 
very  well  for  an  hour  or  two,  but  you  can’t  bal¬ 
ance  yourself  for  a  week. 

George  said: 

“Let’s  go  up  the  river.” 

He  said  we  should  have  fresh  air,  exercise  and 
juiet;  the  constant  change  of  scene  would  occupy 
our  minds  (including  what  there  was  of  Harris’s), 
and  the  hard  work  would  give  us  a  good  appetite 
and  make  us  sleep  well. 

Harris  said  he  didn’t  think  George  ought  to  do 
anything  that  would  have  a  tendency  to  make  him 
sleepier  than  he  always  was,  as  it  might  be 
dangerous.  He  said  he  didn’t  very  well  under¬ 
stand  how  George  was  going  to  sleep  any  more 
than  he  did  now,  seeing  that  there  were  only  twen¬ 
ty-four  hours  in  each  day,  summer  and  winter 
alik^,  but  thought  that  if  he  did  sleep  any  more 


20 


Thvcc  2Uen  in  a  J^oai. 


he  might  just  as  well  be.  dead,  and  so  save  his 
board  and  lodging. 

Harris  said,  however,  that  the  river  would  suit 
him  to  a  “T.”  I  don’t  know  what  a  “T”  is  (except 
a  sixpenny  one,  which  includes  bread-and-butter 
and  cake  ad  lib.,  and  is  cheap  at  the  price  if  you 
haven’t  had  any  dinner).  It  seems  to  suit  every¬ 
body,  however,  which  is  greatly  to  its  credit. 

It  suits  me  to  a  “T”  too,  and  Harris  and  I  both 
said  it  was  a  good  idea  of  George’s;  and  we  said 
it  in  a  tone  that  seemed  to  somehow  imply  that 
we  were  surprised  that  George  should  have  come 
out  so  sensible. 

The  only  one  who  was  not  struck  with  the  sug¬ 
gestion  was  Montmorency.  He  never  did  care 
for  the  river,  did  Montmorency. 

“It’s  all  very  well  for  you  fellows,”  he  says;  “you 
like  it,  but  I  don’t.  There’s  nothing  for  me  to 
do.  Scenery  is  not  in  my  line,  and  I  don’t  smoke. 
If  I  see  a  rat  you  won’t  stop,  and  if  I  go  to  sleep 
you  get  fooling  about  with  the  boat  and  slop  me 
overboard.  If  you  ask  me  I  call  the  whole  thing 
bally  foolishness.” 

We  were  three  to  one,  however,  and  the  motion 
was  carried. 


gfttjce  gtoet*  iw  a  goat. 


21 


CHAPTER  II. 

We  pulled  out  the  maps  and  discussed  plans. 

We  arranged  to  start  on  the  following  Satur¬ 
day  from  Kingston.  Harris  and  I  would  go  down 
in  the  morning  and  take  the  boat  up  to  Chertsey, 
and  George,  who  would  not  be  able  to  get  away 
from  the  city  till  afternoon  (George  goes  to  sleep 
at  a  bank  from  ten  to  four  each  day,  except  Sat¬ 
urdays,  when  they  wake  him  up  and  put  him  out¬ 
side  at  two),  would  meet  us  there. 

Should  we  “camp  out”  or  sleep  at  inns? 

George  and  I  were  for  camping  out.  We  said 
it  would  be  so  wild  and  free,  so  patriarchal  like. 

Slowly  the  golden  memory  of  the  dead  sun 
fades  from  the  hearts  of  the  cold,  sad  clouds. 
Silent,  like  sorrowing  children,  the  birds  have 
ceased  their  song,  and  only  the  moor-hen’s  plain¬ 
tive  cry  and  the  harsh  croa.*  of  the  corn-crake 
stirs  the  awed  hush  around  the  couch  of  waters, 
where  the  dying  day  breathes  out  her  last 

From  the  dim  woods  on  either  bank  Night’s 
ghostly  army,  the  gray  shadows,  creep  out  with 
noiseless  tread  to  chase  away  the  lingering  rear¬ 
guard  of  the  light  and  pass  with  noiseless,  unseen 
feet  above  the  waving  river-grass,  through  the 
sighing  rushes;  and  Night,  upon  her  somber 


22 


$tixxx  plert  in  a  ^xrat. 


throne,  folds  her  black  wings  above  the  darken¬ 
ing  world,  and,  from  her  phantom  palace,  lit  by 
the  pale  stars,  reigns  in  stillness. 

Then  we  run  our  little  boat  into  some  quiet 
nook,  and  the  tent  is  pitched,  and  the  frugal  sup¬ 
per  cooked  and  eaten.  Then  the  big  pipes  are 
filled  and  lighted,  and  the  pleasant  chat  goes 
round  in  musical  undertone;  while,  in  the  pauses 
of  our  talk,  the  river,  playing  round  the  boat, 
prattles  strange  old  tales  and  secrets,  sings  low 
the  old  child’s  song  that  it  has  sung  so  many 
thousand  years — will  sing  so  many  thousand 
years  to  come,  before  its  voice  grows  harsh  and 
old — a  song  that  we,  who  have  learnt  to  love  its 
changing  face,  who  have  so  often  nestled  on  its 
yielding  bosom,  think,  somehow,  we  understand, 
though  we  could  not  tell  you  in  mere  words  the 
story  that  we  listen  to. 

And  we  sit  there  by  its  margin,  while  the  moon, 
who  loves  it  too,  stoops  down  to  kiss  it  with  a 
sister’s  kiss  and  throws  her  silver  arms  around  it 
clingingly;  and  we  watch  it  as  it  flows,  ever  sing¬ 
ing,  ever  whispering,  out  to  meet  its  king,  the 
sea — till  our  voices  die  away  in  silence  and  the 
pipes  go  out — till  we,  commonplace,  every-day 
young  men  enough,  feel  strangely  full  of 
thoughts,  half  sad,  half  sweet,  and  do  not  care  or 
want  to  speak — till  we  laugh,  and,  rising,  knock 


glnrcjc  fptjeu  in  a  ^oat 


23 


the  ashes  from  our  burnt-out  pipes,  and  say 
'‘Good-night,”  and,  lulled  by  the  lapping  water 
and  the  rustling  trees,  we  fall  asleep  beneath  the 
great,  still  stars  and  dream  that  the  world  is  young 
again — young  and  sweet  as  she  used  to  be  ere  the 
centuries  of  fret  and  care  had  furrowed  her  fair 
face,  ere  her  children's  sins  and  follies  had  made 
old  her  loving  heart — sweet  as  she  was  in  those 
bygone  days  when,  a  new-made  mother,  she 
nursed  us,  her  children,  upon  her  own  deep  l  reast 
— ere  the  wiles  of  painted  civilization  had  lured 
us  away  from  her  fond  arms  and  the  poisoned 
sneers  of  artificiality  had  made  us  ashamed  of  the 
simple  life  we  led  with  her,  and  the  simple,  stately 
home  where  mankind  was  born  so  many  thou¬ 
sand  years  ago. 

Harris  said: 

“How  about  when  it  rained?” 

You  can  never  rouse  Harris.  *  There  is  no 
poetry  about  Harris — no  wild  yearning  for  the 
unattainable.  Harris  never  “weeps,  he  knows 
not  why.”  If  Harris’s  eyes  fill  with  tears  you  can 
bet  it  is  because  Harris  has  been  eating  raw 
onions  or  has  put  too  much  Worcester  over  Iris 
chop. 

If  you  were  to  stand  at  night  by  the  sea-shore 
with  Harris  and  say: 


24 


glxxxc  i*%ctx  in  a  38  out. 


“Hark!  do  you  not  hear?  Is  it  but  the  mer¬ 
maids  singing  deep  below  the  waving  waters, 
or  sad  spirits  chanting  dirges  for  white  corpses 
held  by  seaweed?”  Harris  would  take  you  by  the 
arm  and  say: 

“I  know  what  it  is,  old  man;  you’ve  got  a  chill. 
Now,  you  come  along  with  me.  I  know  a  place 
round  the  corner  here,  where  you  can  get  a  drop 
of  the  finest  Scotch  whiskey  yon.  ever  tasted — put 
you  right  in  less  than  no  time.’' 

Harris  always  does  know  a  place  round  the 
corner  where  you  can  get  something  brilliant  in 
the  drinking  line.  I  believe  thrt  if  you  met  Harris 
up  in  Paradise  (supposing  such  a  thing  likely)  he 
would  immediately  greet  you  with: 

“So  glad  you’ve  come,  old  fellow;  I’ve  found 
a  nice  place  round  the  corner  here,  where  you 
can  get  some  really  first-class  nectar.” 

In  the  present  instance,  hov'ever,  as  regarded 
the  camping  out,  his  practical  view  of  the  matter 
came  as  a  very  timely  hint.  Camping  out  in  rainy 
weather  is  not  pleasant. 

It  is  evening.  You  are  wet  through,  and  there 
is  a  good  two  inches  of  water  in  the  boat,  and  all 
the  things  are  damp.  You  find  a  place  on  the 
banks  that  is  not  quite  so  puddly  as  other  places 
you  have  seen,  and  you  land  and  lug  out  the  tent, 
and  two  of  you  proceed  to  fix  it. 


25 


£ht*jce  -fXXcn  in  a  l&crai. 


It  is  soaked  and  heavy,  and  it  flops  about  and 
tumbles  down  on  you  and  clings  round  your  head 
and  makes  you  mad.  The  rain  is  pouring  stead¬ 
ily  down  all  the  time.  It  is  difficult  enough  to  fix 
a  tent  in  dry  weather;  in  wet  the  task  becomes 
herculean.  Instead  of  helping  you,  it  seems  to 
you  that  the  other  man  is  simply  playing  the  fool. 
Just  as  you  get  your  side  beautifully  fixed  he 
gives  it  a  hoist  from  his  end  and  spoils  it  all. 

“Here!  what  are  you  up  to?'’  you  call  out. 

“What  are  you  up  to?”  he  retorts;  “leggo,  can’t 
you?” 

“"Don’t  pull  it;  you’ve  got  it  all  wrong,  you 
stupid  ass!”  you  shout. 

“No,  I  haven’t,”  he  yells;  “let  go  your  side!’" 

“I  tell  you  you’ve  got  it  all  wrong!”  you  roar, 
wishing  that  you  could  get  at  him,  and  you  give 
your  ropes  a  lug  that  pulls  all  his  pegs  out. 

“Ah,  the  bally  idiot!’’  you  hear  him  mutter  to 
himself,  and  then  comes  a  savage  haul,  and  away 
goes  your  side.  You  lay  down  the  mallet  and 
start  to  go  round  and  tell  him  what  you  think 
about  the  whole  business,  and  at  the  same  time 
he  starts  around  in  the  same  direction  to  come 
and  explain  his  views  to  you.  And  you  follow 
each  other  round  and  round,  swearing  at  one  an¬ 
other,  until  the  tent  tumbles  down  in  a  heap  and 
leaves  you  looking  at  each  other  across  its  ruins. 


m  £hvci  Udm  in  a  gSoat. 

when  you  both  indignantly  exclaim,  in  the  same 
breath : 

“There  you  are!  what  did  I  tell  you?” 

Meanwhile  the  third  man,  who  has  been  bail¬ 
ing  out  the  boat,  and  who  has  spilled  the  water 
down  his  sleeve  and  has  been  cursing  away  to 
himself  steadily  for  the  last  ten  minutes,  wants  to 
know  what  the  thundering  blazes  you’re  playing 
at  and  why  the  blarmed  tent  isn’t  up  yet. 

At  last,  somehow  or  other,  it  does  get  up  and 
you  land  the  things.  It  is  hopeless  attempting  to 
make  a  wood  fire,  so  you  light  the  methylated 
spirit  stove  and  crowd  round  that. 

Rainwater  is  the  chief  article  of  diet  at  supper. 
The  bread  is  two-thirds  rainwater,  the  beefsteak 
pie  is  exceedingly  rich  in  it,  and  the  jam,  and  the 
butter,  and  the  salt,  and  the  coffee  have  all  com¬ 
bined  with  it  to  make  soup. 

After  supper  you  find  your  tobacco  is  damp 
and  you  cannot  smoke.  Luckily  you  have  a 
bottle  of  the  stuff  that  cheers  and  inebriates,  if 
taken  in  proper  quantity,  and  this  restores  to  you 
sufficient  interest  in  life  to  induce  you  to  go  to 
bed. 

There  you  dream  that  an  elephant  has  suddenly 
sat  down  on  your  chest,  and  that  the  volcano  has 
exploded  and  thrown  you  down  to  the  bottom  of 
the  sea — the  elephant  still  sleeping  peacefully  on 


glwes  D^tjcrt  in  a  JjSjo&t. 


27 


your  bosom.  You  wake  up  and  grasp  the  idea 
that  something  terrible  really  has  happened.  Your 
first  impression  is  that  the  end  of  the  world  has 
come,  and  then  you  think  that  this  cannot  be,  and 
that  it  is  thieves  and  murderers,  or  else  fire,  and 
this  opinion  you  express  in  the  usual  method.  No 
help  comes,  however,  and  all  you  know  is  that 
thousands  of  people  are  kicking  you,  and  you 
are  being  smothered. 

Somebody  else  seems  in  trouble,  too.  You  cai 
hear  his  faint  cries  coming  from  underneath  you* 
bed.  Determining,  at  all  events,  to  sell  your  lit? 
dearly,  you  struggle  frantically,  hitting  out  r:gh; 
and  left  with  arms  and  legs,  and  yelling  lustil/ 
the  while,  and  at  last  something  gives  way  and 
you  find  your  head  in  the  fresh  air.  Two  feet 
off  you  dimly  observe  a  half-dressed  ruffian,  wait¬ 
ing  to  kill  you,  and  you  are  preparing  for  a  life- 
and-death  struggle  with  him,  when  it  begins  to 
dawn  upon  you  .that  it’s  Jim. 

“Oh,  it’s  you,  is  it?”  he  says,  recognizing  you 
at  the  same  moment. 

“Yes,”  you  answer,  rubbing  your  eyes;  “what’s 
happened?” 

“Bally  tent’s  blown  down,  I  think,”  he  says. 
“Where’s  Bill?” 

Then  you  both  raise  up  your  voices  and  shout 
for  “Bill!”  and  the  ground  beneath  you  heaves 


28 


%)xxtz  ptcu  in  a  gkcrat. 


and  rocks  and  the  muffled  voice  that  you  heard 
before  replies  from  out  the  ruin: 

“Get  off  my  head,  can’t  you?” 

And  Bill  .struggles  out,  a  muddy,  trampled 
wreck,  and  in  an  unnecessarily  aggressive  mood 
— he  being  under  the  evident  belief  that  the  whole 
thing  has  been  done  on  purpose. 

In  the  morning  you  are  all  three  speechless, 
owing  to  having  caught  severe  colds  in  the  night; 
you  also  feel  very  quarrelsome,  and  you  swear 
at  each  other  in  hoarse  whispers  during  the  whole 
of  breakfast  time. 

We  therefore  decided  that  we  would  sleep  out 
on  fine  nights;  and  hotel  it,  and  inn  it,  and  pub. 
it,  like  respectable  folks,  when  it  was  wet,  or 
when  we  felt  inclined  for  a  change. 

Montmorency  hailed  this  compromise  with 
much  approval.  He  does  not  revel  in  romantic 
solitude.  Give  him  something  noisy;  and  if  a 
trifle  low,  so  much  the  jollier.  To  look  at  Mont¬ 
morency  you  would  imagine  that  he  was  an  angel 
sent  upon  the  earth,  for  some  reason  withheld 
from  mankind,  in  the  shape  of  a  small  fox-terrier. 
There  is  a  sort  of  Oh-what-a-wicked-world-this- 
is  -  and  -  how- 1 -would  -  like  -  to  -  do  -  something- 
to-make-it-better-and-nobler  expression  about 
Montmorency  that  has  been  known  to  bring  the 


glxv&c  ptcu  in  a  gjcrat.  29 

tears  into  the  eyes  of  pious  old  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen. 

When  first  he  came  to  live  at  my  expense,  I 
never  thought  I  should  be  able  to  get  him  to 
stop  long.  I  used  to  sit  down  and  look  at  him, 
as  he  sat  on  the  rug  and  looked  up  at  me,  and 
think:  “Oh,  that  dog  will  never  live.  He  will 
be  snatched  up  to  the  bright  skies  in  a  chariot. 
That  is  what  will  happen  to  him.” 

But,  when  I  had  paid  for  about  a  dozen  chick¬ 
ens  that  he  had  killed,  and  had  dragged  him, 
growling  and  kicking,  by  the  scruff  of  his  neck, 
out  of  a  hundred  and  fourteen  gtreet  fights,  and 
had  had  a  dead  cat  brought  round  for  my  in¬ 
spection  by  an  irate  female,  who  called  me  a 
murderer,  and  had  been  summoned  by  the  man 
next  door  but  one  for  having  a  ferocious  dog  at 
large,  that  had  kept  him  pinned  up  in  his  own 
tool  shed,  afraid  to  venture  his  nose  outside  the 
door,  for  over  two  hours  on  a  cold  night;  and 
had  learned  that  the  gardener,  unknown  to  my¬ 
self,  had  won  thirty  shillings  by  backing  him  to 
kill  rats  against  time,  then  I  began  to  think  that 
maybe  they’d  let  him  remain  on  earth  for  a  bit 
longer,  after  all. 

To  hang  about  a  stable  and  collect  a  gang  of 
the  most  disreputable  dogs  to  be  found  in  the 
town  and  lead  them  out  to  march  round  the 


ghxzz  UStjetx  in  a  gxrat. 


40 

slums  to  fight  other  disreputable  dogs  is  Mont" 
morency’s  idea  of  “life;”  and  so,  as  I  before  ob¬ 
served,  he  gave  to  the  suggestion  of  inns,  and 
pubs.,  and  hotels  his  most  emphatic  approbation. 

Having  thus  settled  the  sleeping  arrangements 
to  the  satisfaction  of  all  four  of  us,  the  only  thing 
left  to  discuss  was  what  we  should  take  with  us; 
and  this  we  had  begun  to  argue,  when  Harris 
said  he’d  had  enough  oratory  for  one  night  and 
proposed  that  we  should  go  out  and  have  a  smile, 
saying  that  he  had  found  a  place,  round  by  the 
square,  where  you  could  really  get  a  drop  of  Irish 
worth  drinking. 

George  said  he  felt  thirsty  (I  never  knew 
George  when  he  didn’t),  and,  as  I  had  a  presenti¬ 
ment  that  a  little  whisky,  warm,  with  a  slice  of 
lemon,  would  do  my  complaint  good,  the  debate 
was,  by  common  assent,  adjourned  to  the  follow¬ 
ing  night;  and  the  assembly  put  on  its  hats  and 
went  out. 


CHAPTER  III. 

So,  on  the  following  evening,  we  again  assem¬ 
bled  to  discuss  and  arrange  our  plans.  Harris  said: 

“Now,  the  first  thing  to  settle  is  what  to  take 
with  us.  Now,  you  get  a  bit  of  paper  and  write 
down,  J.,  and  you  get  the  grocery  catalogue, 


$Jxxtc  |Hjcu  in  a  goat. 


31 


George,  and  somebody  give  me  a  bit  of  pencil, 
and  then  I’ll  make  out  a  list.” 

That’s  Harris  all  over — so  ready  to  take  the 
burden  of  everything  himself  and  put  it  on  the 
backs  of  other  people. 

He  always  reminds  me  of  my  poor  Uncle 
Podger.  You  never  saw  such  a  commotion  up 
and  down  a  house  in  all  your  life  as  v.'hen  my 
Uncle  Podger  undertook  to  do  a  job.  A  picture 
would  have  come  home  from  the  frame-maker’s 
and  be  standing  in  the  dining-room,  waiting  to 
be  put  up;  and  Aunt  Podger  would  ask  what  was 
to  be  done  with  it,  and  Uncle  Podger  would  say: 

“Oh,  you  leave  that  to  me.  Don’t  you,  any  of 
you,  worry  yourselves  about  that.  I’ll  do  all 
that.” 

And  then  he  would  take  off  his  coat  and  begin. 
He  would  send  the  girl  out  for  sixpen’orth  of 
nails  and  then  one  of  the  boys  after  her  to  tell 
her  what  size  to  get,  and  from  that  he  would 
gradually  work  down  and  start  the  whole  house. 

“Now,  you  go  and  get  me  my  hammer,  Will,” 
he  would  shout;  “and  you  bring  me  the  rule, 
Tom;  and  I  shall  want  the  step-ladder,  and  I  had 
better  have  a  kitchen  chair,  too;  and,  Jim!  you 
run  round  to  Mr.  Goggles  and  tell  him,  ‘Pa’s 
kind  regards,  and  hopes  his  leg’s  better,  and  will 
lie  lend  him  his  spirit-level?’  And  don’t  you  go, 


32 


gtacje  gXjcn  in  a  gjcrai. 


Maria,  because  I  shall  want  somebddy  to  hold  me 
the  light;  and  when  the  girl  comes  back  she  must 
go  out  again  for  a  bit  of  picture-cord;  and  Tom 
— where’s  Tom? — Tom,  you  come  here;  I  shall 
want  you  to  hand  me  up  the  picture” 

And  then  he  would  lift  up  the  picture,  and  drop 
it,  and  it  would  come  out  of  the  frame,  and  he 
would  try  to  save  the  glass  and  cut  himself;  and 
then  he  would  spring  round  the  room,  looking  for 
his  handkerchief.  He  could  not  find  his  hand¬ 
kerchief  because  it  was  in  the  pocket  of  the  coat 
he  had  taken  off,  and  he  didn’t  know  where  he 
had  put  the  coat,  and  all  the  house  had  to  leave  off 
looking  for  his  tools  and  start  looking  for  his 
coat,  while  he  would  dance  round  and  hinder 
them. 

“Doesn’t  anybody  in  the  whole  house  know 
where  my  coat  is?  I  never  came  across  such  a 
set  in  all  my  life — upon  my  word  I  didn’t.  Six  of 
you ! — and  you  can’t  find  a  coat  that  I  put  down 

not, five  minutes  ago!  Well,  of  all  the  - ” 

Then  he’d  get  up  and  find  that  he  had  been 
sitting  on  it,  and  would  call  out: 

“Oh,  you  can  give  it  up!  I’ve  found  it  my¬ 
self  now.  Might  just  as  well  ask  the  cat  to  find 
anything  as  expect  you  people  to  find  it.” 

And,  when  half  an  hour  had  been  spent  in 
tying  up  his  finger  and  a  new  glass  had  been 


gtiLctx  in  a  ^xrat. 


33 


got,  and  the  tools,  and  the  ladder,  and  the  chair, 
and  the  candle  had  been  brought,  he  would  have 
another  go,  the  whole  family,  including  the  girl 
and  the  charwoman,  standing  round  in  a  semi¬ 
circle,  ready  to  help.  Two  people  would  have  to 
hold  the  chair  and  a  third  would  help  him  up  on 
it  and  hold  him  there,  and  a  fourth  would  hand 
him  a  nail,  and  a  fifth  would  pass  him  up  the 
hammer  and  he  would  take  hold  of  the  nail  and 
drop  it. 

“There!’-  he  would  say,  in  an  injured  tone, 
“now  the  nail’s  gone.” 

And  we  would  all  have  to  go  down  on  our 
knees  and  grovel  for  it  while  he  would  stand  on 
the  chair  and  grunt  and  want  to  know*  if  he  was 
to  be  kept  there  all  the  evening. 

The  nail  would  be  found  at  last,  and  by  that 
time  he  would  have  lost  the  hammer. 

“Where’s  the  hammer?  What  did  I  do  with 
the  hammer?  Great  heavens!  Seven  of  you, 
gaping  round  there,  and  you  don’t  know  what  I 
did  with  the  hammer!” 

We  would  find  the  hammer  for  him,  and  then 
he  would  have  lost  sight  of  the  mark  he  had 
made  on  the  wall,  where  the  nail  was  to  go  in, 
and  each  of  us  had  to  get  up  on  a  chair  beside 
him  and  see  if  we  could  find  it,  and  we  would 
each  discover  it  in  a  different  place,  and  he  would 


34 


gfttfjeje  pUn  in  a  Bjcrat. 


call  us  all  fools,  one  after  another,  and  tell  us  to 
■vet  down.  And  he  would  take  the  rule  and  re- 
aeasure  and  find  that  he  wanted  half  thirty-one 
md  three-eighths  inches  from  the  corner  and 
vvould  try  to'do  it  in  his  head  and  go  mad. 

And  we  would  all  try  to  do  it  in  our  heads  and 
all  arrive  at  different  results  and  sneer  at  one  an¬ 
other.  And  in  the  general  row  the  original  num¬ 
ber  would  be  forgotten  and  Uncle  Podger  would 
have  to  measure  it  again. 

He  would  use  a  bit  of  string  this  time,  and  at 
the  critical  moment,  when  the  old  fool  was  lean¬ 
ing  over  the  chair  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  de¬ 
grees  and  was  trying  to  reach  a  point  three  inches 
beyond  what  was  possible  for  him  to  reach,  tl  e 
string  would  slip,  and  down  he  would  slide  on  to 
the  piano,  a  really  fine  musical  effect  being  pro¬ 
duced  by  the  suddenness  with  which  his  head  and 
body  struck  all  the  notes  at  the  same  time. 

And  Aunt  Maria  would  say  that  she  would  not 
allow  the  children  to  stand  round  and  hear  such 
language. 

At  last  Uncle  Podger  would  get  the  spot  fixed 
again,  and  put  the  point  of  the  nail  on  it  with 
his  left  hand  and  take  the  hammer  in  his  right 
hand.  And  with  the  first  blow  he  would  smash 
his  thumb  and  drop  the  hammer,  with  a  yell, 
somebody’s  toes. 


QYixzz  Htjctt  itt  »  Uxrai. 


85 


Aunt  Maria  would  mildly  observe  that  next 
time  Uncle  Podger  was  going  to  hammer  a  nail 
into  the  wall  she  hoped  he’d  let  her  know  in 
time,  so  that  she  could  make  arrangements  to 
go  and  spend  a  week  with  her  mother  while  it 
v/as  being  done. 

“Oh!  vou  women,  you  make  such  a  fuss  over 
everything,”  Uncle  Podger  would  reply,  pick¬ 
ing  himself  up.  “Why,  I  like  doing  a  little  job 
of  this  sort.” 

And  then  he  would  have  another  try,  and,  at 
the  second  blow,  the  nail  would  go  clean  through 
the  plaster  and  half  the  hammer  after  it,  and 
Uncle  Podger  be  precipitated  against  the  wall 
with  force  nearly  sufficient  to  flatten  his  nose. 

Then  we  had  to  find  the  rule  and  the  string 
again,  and  a  new  hole  was  made;  and,  about  mid’ 
night,  the  picture  would  be  up — very  crooked 
and  insecure,  the  wall  for  yards  round  looking 
as  if  it  had  been  smoothed  down  with  a  rake, 
and  everybody  dead  beat  and  wretched — except 
Uncle  Podger. 

“There  you  are,”  he  would  say,  stepping  heav¬ 
ily  off  the  chair  onto  the  charwoman’s  corns  and 
surveying  the  mess  he  had  made  with  evident 
pride.  “Why,  some  people  would  have  a  man 
in  to  do  a  little  thing  like  that!” 

Harris  will  be  just  that  sort  of  man  when  he 


gtoe*  Ipxw  in  a  goat. 


56 

grows  up,  I  know,  and  I  told  him  so.  I  said 
I  could  not  permit  him  to  take  so  much  labor 
upon  himself.  I  said: 

'‘No;  you  get  the  paper,  and  the  pencil,  and 
the  catalogue  and  George  write  down,  and  I’ll  do 
the  work.” 

The  first  list  we  made  out  had  to  be  discarded. 
It  was  clear  that  the  upper  reaches  of  the  Thames 
would  not  allow  of  the  navigation  of  a  boat  suffi¬ 
ciently  large  to  take  the  things  we  had  set  down 
as  indispensable:  so  we  tore  the  list  up  and 
looked  at  one  another! 

George  said: 

“You  know  we  are  on  the  wrong  track  alto¬ 
gether.  We  must  not  think  of  the  things  we 
could  do  with,  but  only  of  the  things  that  we  can’t 
do  without.” 

George  comes  out  really  quite  sensible  at  times. 
You’d  be  surprised.  I  call  that  downright  wis¬ 
dom,  not  merely  as  regards  the  present  case,  but 
with  reference  to  our  trip  up  the  river  of  life, 
generally.  How  many  people,  on  that  voyage, 
load  up  the  boat  till  it  is  ever  in  danger  of  swamp¬ 
ing  with  a  store  of  foolish  things  which  they 
think  essential  to  the  pleasure  and  comfort  of  the 
trip,  but  which  are  really  only  useless  lumber. 

How  they  pile  the  poor  little  craft  mast  high 
with  fine  clothes  and  big  houses;  with  useless 


glutee  IJXjcu  in  a  i^jcrat. 


37 


•ervants  and  a  host  of  swell  friends  that  do  not 
rare  twopence  for  them,  and  that  they  do  not  care 
three  ha’pence  for;  wi.h  expensive  entertainments 
ihat  nobody  enjoys,  with  formalities  and  fashions, 
with  pretence  and  ostentation,  and  with — oh, 
heaviest,  maddest  lumber  of  all! — the  dread  of 
what  will  my  neighbor  think;  with  luxuries  that 
only  cloy,  with  pleasures  that  bore,  with  empty 
show  that,  like  the  criminal's  iron  crown  of  yore, 
makes  to  bleed  and  swoon  the  aching  head  that 
wears  it! 

It  is  lumber,  man — all  lumber!  Throw  it  over¬ 
board.  It  makes  the  boat  so  heavy  to  pull,  you 
nearly  faint  at  the  oars.  It  makes  it  so  cumber¬ 
some  and  dangerous  to  manage,  you  never  know 
a  moment’s  freedom  from  anxiety  and  care,  never 
gain  a  moment’s  rest  for  dreamy  laziness — no 
time  to  watch  the  windy  shadows  skimming 
lightly  o’er  the  shallows,  or  the  glittering  sun¬ 
beams  flitting  in  and  out  among  the  ripples,  or 
the  great  trees  by  the  margin  looking  down  at 
their  own  image,  or  the  woods  all  green  and 
golden,  or  the  lilies,  white  and  yellow,  or  the 
somber-waving  rushes,  or  the  sedges,  or  the 
orchids,  or  the  blue  forget-me-nots. 

Throw  the  lumber  over,  man!  Let  your  boat 
of  life  be  light,  packed  with  only  what  you  need 
— a  homely  home  and  simple  pleasures,  one  or 


m 


QXixzz  m$Lm  in  a  goat 


two  friends,  worth  the  name,  some  one  to  love 
and  some  one  to  love  you;  a  cat,  a  dog,  and  a 
pipe  or  two,  enough  to  eat  and  enough  to  wear, 
and  a  little  more  than  enough  to  drink ;  for  thirst 
is  a  dangerous  thing. 

You  will  find  the  boat  easier  to  pull  then,  and  it 
will  not  be  so  liable  to  upset,  and  it  will  not  mat¬ 
ter  so  much  if  it  does  upset;  good,  plain  mer¬ 
chandise  will  stand  water.  You  will  have  time 
to  think  as  well  as  to  work.  Time  to  drink  in 
life’s  sunshine— -time  to  listen  to  the  Aeolian 
music  that  the  wind  of  God  draws  from  the 
human  heartstrings  around  us — time  to — — 

I  beg  your  pardon,  really.  I  quite  forgot. 

Well,  we  left  the  list  to  George,  and  he 
began  it. 

“We  won’t  take  a  tent,”  suggested  George ;  “we 
will  have  a  boat  with  a  cover.  It  is  ever  so  much 
simpler  and  more  comfortable” 

It  seemed  a  good  thought,  and  we  adopted  it 
I  do  not  know  whether  you  have  ever  seen  the 
thing  I  mean.  You  fix  iron  hoops  up  over  the 
boat  and  stretch  a  huge  canvas  over  them  and 
fasten  it  down  all  round,  from  stem  to  stern,  and 
it  converts  the  boat  into  a  sort  of  little  house,  and 
it  is  beautifully  cosy,  though  a  trifle  stuffy;  but 
there,  everything  has  its  drawbacks,  as  the  mar. 


Six  vex  pCjetx  in  a  goat.  39 

said  when  his  mother-in-law  died,  and  they  came 
down  upon  him  for  the  funeral  expenses. 

George  said  that  in  that  case  we  must  take  a 
rug  each,  a  lamp,  some  soap,  a  brush  and  comb 
(between  us),  a  tooth-brush  (each),  a  basin,  some 
tooth-powder,  some  shaving  tackle  (sounds  like 
a  French  exercise,  doesn’t  it?),  and  a  couple  of 
big  towels  for  bathing.  1  notice  that  people  al¬ 
ways  make  gigantic  arrangements  for  bathing 
when  they  are  going  anywhere  near  the  water, , 
but  that  they  don’t  bathe  much  when  they  are 
there.  It  is  the  same  when  you  go  to  the  sea¬ 
side.  I  always  determine — when  thinking  over 
the  matter  in  London — that  I’ll  get  up  early  every 
morning  and  go  and  have  a  dip  before  break¬ 
fast,  and  I  religiously  pack  up  a  pair  of  drawers 
and  a  bath  towel.  I  alwajs  get  red  bathing 
drawers.  I  rather  fancy  myself  in  red  drawers 
They  suit  my  complexion  so.  But  when  I  get 
to  the  sea  I  don’t  feel  somehow  that  I  want  that 
early  morning  bathe  nearly  so  much  as  I  did 
when  I  was  in  town. 

On  the  contrary,  I  feel  more  that  I  want  to 
stop  in  bed  till  the  last  moment,  and  then  come 
down  and  have  my  breakfast.  Once  or  twice 
virtue  has  triumphed,  and  I  have  got  out  at  six 
and  half  dressed  myself,  and  have  taken  my 
drawers  and  towel  and  stumbled  dismally  ofT. 


40 


gftK&e  |JXj en  in  a  goat. 


But  I  haven’t  enjoyed  it.  They  seem  to  keep  a 
specially  cutting  east  wind  waiting  for  me  when 
I  go  to  bathe  in  the  early  morning;  and  they  pick 
out  all  the  three-cornered  stones  and  put  them 
on  the  top,  and  they  sharpen  up  the  rocks  and 
cover  the  points  over  with  a  bit  of  sand  so  that 
I  can’t  see  them,  and  they  take  the  sea  and  put 
it  two  miles  out,  so  that  I  have  to  huddle  myself 
up  in  my  arms  and  hop,  shivering,  through  six 
inches  of  water.  And  when  I  do  get  to  the  sea 
it  is  rough  and  quite  insulting. 

One  huge  wave  catches  me  up  and  chucks  me 
in  a  sitting  posture,  as  hard  as  ever  it  can,  down 
on  to  a  rock  which  has  been  put  there  for  me. 
And,  before  I’ve  said  “Oh!  Ugh!”  and  found  out 
what  has  gone,  the  wave  comes  back  and  carries 
me  out  to  mid-ocean.  I  begin  to  strike  out  fran- 
ticallv  for  the  shore  and  wonder  if  I  shall  ever 
see  home  and  friends  again,  and  wish  I’d  been 
kinder  to  my  little  sister  when  a  boy  (when  I  was 
a  boy,  I  mean).  Just  when  I  have  given  up  all 
hope,  a  wave  retires  and  leaves  me  sprawling  like 
a  starfish  on  the  sand,  and  I  get  up  and  look  back 
and  find  that  I’ve  been  swimming  for  my  life  in 
two  feet  of  water.  I  hop  back  and  dress,  and 
crawl  home,  where  I  have  to  pretend  I  liked  it. 

In  the  present  instance  we  all  talked  as  if  we 
were  going  to  have  a  long  swim  every  morning. 


jcjc  f$&jett  in  a  goat. 


41 


Geoige  said  it  was  so  pleasant  to  wake  up  in  the 
boat  in  the  fresh  morning  and  plunge  into  the 
limpid  river.  Harris  said  there  was  nothing  like 
a  swim  before  breakfast  to  give  you  an  appetite. 
He  said  it  always  gave  him  an  appetite.  George 
said  that  if  it  was  going  to  make  Harris  eat  more 
than  Harris  ordinarily  ate,  then  he  should  pro¬ 
test  against  Harris  having  a  bath  at  all. 

He  said  there  would  be  quite  enough  hard 
work  in  towing  sufficient  food  for  Harris  up 
against  stream,  as  it  was. 

I  urged  upon  George,  however,  how  much 
pleasanter  it  would  be  to  have  Harris  clean  and 
fresh  about  the  boat,  even  if  we  did  have  to  take 
a  few  more  hundred-weight  of  provisions,  and 
he  got  to  see  it  in  my  light  and  withdrew  his 
opposition  to  Harris’s  bath. 

Agreed,  finally  that  wre  should  take  three  bath 
towels,  so  as  not  to  keep  each  other  waiting. 

For  clothes,  George  said  two  suits  of  flannel 
would  be  sufficient,  as  we  could  wash  them  our¬ 
selves  in  the  river  when  they  got  dirty.  We  asked 
him  if  he  had  ever  tried  washing  flannels  in  the 
river,  and  he  replied:  “No,  not  exactly  h’mself, 
but  he  knew  some  fellows  who  had,  and  it  was 
easy  enough;”  and  Harris  and  I  were  weak 
enough  to  fancy  that  he  knew  what  he  was  talk¬ 
ing  about  and  that  three  respectable  young  men, 


glx^jce  U&jen  in  a  gjaat. 


*3 

without  position  or  influence,  and  with  no  exfc 
lienee  in  washing,  could  really  clean  their  own 
shirts  and  trousers  in  the  river  Thames  with  a 
bit  of  soap. 

We  were  to  learn  in  the  days  to  come,  when  it 
was  too  late,  that  George  was  a  miserable  im¬ 
postor,  who  could  evidently  have  known  nothing 
whatever  about  the  matter.  If  you  had  seen  these 
clothes  after — but,  as  the  shilling  shockers  say, 
we  anticipate. 

George  impressed  upon  us  to  take  a  change  of 
underthings  and  plenty  of  socks,  in  case  we  got 
upset  and  wanted  a  change;  also  plenty  of  hand¬ 
kerchiefs,  as  they  would  do  to  wipe  things,  and 
a  pair  of  leather  boots  as  well  as  our  boating 
shoes,  as  we  should  want  them  if  we  got  upset. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Then  we  discussed  the  food  question. 

George  said: 

“Begin  with  breakfast.”  (George  is  so  practi¬ 
cal.)  “Now.  for  breakfast  we  shall  want  a  frying- 
pan” — (Hariis  said  it  was  indigestible,  but  we 
merely  urged  hrm  to  be  an  ass,  and  George 


ghxtz  U&etx  in  a  goat. 


42 


went  on) — “a  tea-pot  and  a  kettle,  and  a  methy¬ 
lated  spirit  stove.” 

“No  oil,”  said  George,  with  a  significant  look; 
and  Harris  and  I  agreed. 

We  had  taken  up  an  oil-stove  once,  but  “never 
again.”  It  had  been  like  living  in  an  oil-shop 
that  week.  It  oozed.  I  never  saw  such  a  thing 
as  paraffine  oil  is  to  ooze.  We  kept  it  in  the  nose 
of  the  boat,  and  from  there  it  oozed  down  to  the 
rudder,  impregnating  the  whole  boat  and  every¬ 
thing  in  it  on  its  way,  and  it  oozed  over  the  river 
and  saturated  the  scenery  and  spoilt  the  atmos¬ 
phere.  Sometimes  a  westerly  oily  wind  blew, 
and  at  other  times  an  easterly  oily  wind,  and 
sometimes  a  northerly  oily  wind,  and  maybe  a 
southerly  oily  wind;  but  whether  it  came  from 
the  Arctic  snows  or  was  raised  in  the  waste  of 
the  desert  sands,  it  came  alike  to  us  laden  with  the 
fragrance  of  paraffine  oil. 

And  the  oil  oozed  up  and  ruined  the  sunset, 
and  as  for  the  moonbeams,  they  positively  reeked 
of  paraffine. 

We  tried  to  get  away  from  it  at  Marlow.  We 
left  the  boat  by  the  bridge  and  took  a  walk 
through  the  town  to  escape  it,  but  it  followed  us. 
The  whole  town  was  full  of  oil.  We  passed 
through  the  churchyard  and  it  seemed  as  if  the 
people  had  been  buried  in  oil;*  The  High  Street 


44 


Jgfrvjeje  fptm  in  a  goat. 


stunk  of  oil;  we  wondered  how  people  could  live 
in  it.  And  we  walked  miles  upon  miles  out  Bir¬ 
mingham  way;  but  it  was  no  use — the  country 
was  steeped  in  oil.  • 

At  the  end  of  that  trip  we  met  together  at 
midnight  in  a  lonely  field,  under  a  blasted  oak, 
and  took  an  awful  oath  (we  had  been  swearing 
for  a  whole  week  about  the  thing  in  an  ordinary, 
middle-class  way,  but  this  was  a  swell  affair) — - 
an  awful  oath  never  to  take  paraffine  oil  with  us 
in  a  boat  again — except,  of  course,  in  case  of 
sickness. 

Therefore,  in  the  present  instance  wTe  confined 
ourselves  to  methylated  spirit.  Even  that  is  bad 
enough.  You  get  methylated  pie  and  methy¬ 
lated  cake.  But  methylated  spirit  is  more  whole¬ 
some  when  taken  into  the  system  in  large  quan¬ 
tities  than  paraffine  oil. 

For  other  breakfast  things  George  suggested 
eggs  and  bacon,  which  were  easy  to  cook;  cold 
meat,  tea,  bread  and  butter,  and  jam.  For  lunch 
he  said  we  could  have  biscuits,  cold  meat,  bread 
and  butter,  and  jam — but  no  cheese.  Cheese, 
like  oil,  makes  too  much  of  itself.  It  wants  the 
whole  boat  to  itself.  It  goes  through  the  hamper 
and  gives  a  cheesy  flavor  to  everything  else  there. 
Y  ou  can’t  tell  whether  you  are  eating  apple-pie  or 
German  sausage,  or-  strawberries  and  cream.  It 


45 


&axcz  gXcu  in  a  goat. 

ail  seems  cheese.  There  is  too  much  odor  about 
cheese. 

I  remember  a  friend  of  mine  buying  a  couple  of 
cheeses  at  Liverpool.  Splendid  cheeses  they 
were,  ripe  and  mellow,  and  with  a  two  hundred 
horse-power  scent  about  them' that  might  have 
been  warranted  to  carry  three  miles  and  knock 
a  man  over  at  two  hundred  yards.  I  was  in  Liv¬ 
erpool  at  the  time,  and  my  friend  said  that  if  I 
didn't  mind  he  would  get  me  to  take  them  back 
with  me  to  London,  as  he  should  not  be  coming 
up  for  a  day  or  two  himself,  and  he  did  not  think 
the  cheeses  ought  to  be  kept  much  longer. 

“Oh,  with  pleasure,  dear  boy,”  I  replied,  “with 
pleasure.” 

I  called  for  the  cheeses  and  took  them  away  in 
a  cab.  It  was  a  ramshackle  affair,  dragged  along 
by  a  knock-kneed,  broken-winded  somnambulist, 
which  his  owner,  in  a  moment  of  enthusiasm,  dur¬ 
ing  conversation,  referred  to  as  a  horse.  I  put 
the  cheeses  on  the  top,  and  we  started  off  at  a 
shamble  that  would  have  done  credit  to  the  swift¬ 
est  steam-roller  ever  built,  and  all  went  merry 
as  a  funeral  bell  until  we  turned  the  corner.  There 
the  wind  carried  a  whiff  from  the  cheeses  full  on 
to  our  steed.  It  woke  him  up,  and,  with  a  snort  of 
ter*or,  he  dashed  off  at  three  miles  an  hour.  The 
wind  still  blew  in  his  direction,  and  before  we 


46 


Jgfxvjeje  fpfctt  in  a  gjaat. 


reached  the  end  of  the  street  he  was  laying  him 
self  out  at  the  rate  of  nearly  four  miles  an  hour, 
leaving  the  cripples  and  stout  old  ladies  simply 
nowhere. 

It  took  two  porters  as  well  as  the  driver  to  hold 
him  in  at  the  station,  and  I  do  not  think  they 
would  have  done  it  even  then  had  not  one  of  the 
men  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  put  a  hand¬ 
kerchief  over  his  nose  and  to  light  a  bit  of  brown 
paper. 

I  took  my  ticket  and  marched  proudly  up  the 
platform  with  my  cheeses,  the  people  falling  back 
respectfully  on  either  side.  The  train  wa? 
crowded  and  I  had  to  get  into  a  carriage  where 
there  were  already  seven  other  people.  One 
crusty  old  gentleman  objected,  but  I  got  in  not¬ 
withstanding,  and,  putting  my  cheeses  upon  the 
rack,  squeezed  down  with  a  pleasant  smile  and 
said  it  was  a  warm  day.  A  few  moments  passed 
and  then  the  old  gentleman  began  to  fidget. 

‘‘Very  close  in  here,”  he  said. 

“Quite  oppressive,”  said  the  man  next  to  him. 

And  then  they  both  began  sniffing,  and,  at  the 
third  sniff,  they  caught  it  right  on  the  chest  and 
rose  up  without  another  word  and  went  out.  And 
then  a  stout  lady  got  up  and  said  it  was  disgrace¬ 
ful  that  a  respectable  married  woman  should  be 
harried  about  in  this  way  and  gathered  up  a 


gtxxxe  fjgtj ew  in  a  goat. 


4? 


bag  and  eight  parcels  and  went  The  remaining 
four  passengers  sat  on  for  a  while,  until  a  solemn- 
looking  man  in  the  corner,  who,  from  his  dress 
and  general  appearance,  seemed  to  belong  to  the 
undertaker  class,  said  it  put  him  in  mind  of  a  dead 
baby,  and  the  other  three  passengers  tried  to  get 
out  of  the  door  at  the  same  time  and  hurt  them¬ 
selves. 

I  smiled  at  the  black  gentleman  and  said  I 
thought  we  were  going  to  have  the  carriage  to 
ourselves,  and  he  laughed  pleasantly  and  said 
that  some  people  made  such  a  fuss  over  a  little 
thing.  But  even  he  grew  strangely  depressed 
after  we  had  started,  and  so,  when  we  reached 
Crewe,  I  asked  him  to  come  and  have  a  drink. 
He  accepted,  and  we  forced  our  way  into  the 
buffet,  where  we  yelled,  and  stamped,  and  waved 
our  umbrellas  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  then 
a  young  lady  came  and  asked  us  if  we  wanted 
anything. 

“What’s  yours?”  I  said,  turning  to  my  friend. 

“Pll  have  half-a-crown’s  worth  of  brandy,  neat, 
if  you  please,  miss,”  he  responded. 

And  he  went  off  quietly  after  he  had  drunk  it 
and  got  into  another  carriage,  which  I  thought 
mean. 

From  Crewe  I  had  the  compartment  to  my¬ 
self,  though  the  train  was  crowded.  As  we  drew 


48 


Sto jcje  Wien  in  a  gxrat. 


up  at  the  different  stations  the  people,  seeing  my 
empty  carriage,  would  rush  for  it.  “Here  y’  are, 
Maria;  come  along;  plenty  of  room.”  “All  right, 
Tom,  we’ll  get  in  here,”  they  would  shout.  And 
they  would  run  along,  carrying  heavy  bags  and 
fight  round  the  door  to  get  in  first.  And  one 
would  open  the  door  and  mount  the  steps  and 
stagger  back  into  the  arms  of  the  man  behind 
him;  and  they  would  all  come  and  have  a  sniff, 
and  then  drop  off  and  squeeze  into  other  car¬ 
riages,  or  pay  the  difference  and  go  first. 

From  Euston  I  took  the  cheeses  down  to  my 
friend’s  house.  When  his  wife  came  into  the 
room  she  smelt  round  for  an  instant.  Then  she 
said: 

“What  is  it?  Tell  me  the  worst.” 

I  said :  y 

“It’s  cheeses.  Tom  bought  them  in  Liverpool, 
and  asked  me  to  bring  them  up  with  me.” 

And  I  added  that  I  hoped  she  understood  that 
it  had  nothing  to  do  with  me;  and  she  said  that 
she  was  sure  of  that,  but  that  she  would  speak 
to  Tom  about  it  when  he  came  back. 

My  friend  was  detained  in  Liverpool  longer 
than  he  expected;  and,  three  days  later,  as  he 
hadn’t  returned  home,  his  wife  called  on  m( 
She  said: 

“What  did  Tom  say  about  those  cheeses?” 


^Iivjcjc  ptm  in  a  goat. 


49 


f  replied  that  he  had  directed  they  were  to  be 
kc;pt  in  a  moist  place,  and  that  nobody  was  to 
touch  them. 

She  said: 

“Nobody’s  likely  to  touch  them.  Had  he  smelt 
them?”  v 

I  thought  he  had,  and  added  that  he  seemed 
greatly  attached  to  them. 

“You  think  he  would  be  upset,”  she  queried, 
“if  I  give  a  man  a  sovereign  to  take  them  away 
and  bury  them?” 

I  answered  that  I  thought  he  would  never 
smile  again. 

An  idea  struck  her.  She  said: 

“Do  you  mind  keeping  them  for  him?  Let 
me  send  them  round  to  you.” 

“Madame,”  I  replied,  “for  myself  I  like  the 
smell  of  cheese,  and  the  journey  the  other  day 
with  them  from  Liverpool  I  shall  ever  look  back 
upon  as  a  happy  ending  to  a  pleasant  holiday. 
But,  in  this  world  we  must  consider  others. 
The  lady  under  whose  roof  I  have  the  honor  of 
residing  is  a  widow,  and,  for  all  I  know,  possib!y 
an  orphan,  too.  She  has  a  strong,  1  may  say  an 
eloquent,  objection  to  being  what  she  terms  ‘put 
upon/  The  presence  of  your  husband’s  cheeses 
in  her  house  she  would,  I  instinctively  feel,  re- 


gard  as  a  ‘put  upon’;  and  it  shall  never  be  saio 
that  I  put  upon  the  widow  and  the  orphan.” 

“Very  well,  then,”  said  my  friend’s  wife,  rising, 
“all  I  have  to  say  is,  that  I  shall  take  the  children 
and  go  to  an  hotel  until  those  cheeses  are  eaten. 
I  decline  to  live  any  longer  in  the  same  house  with 
them.” 

She  kept  her  word,  leaving  the  place  in  charge 
of  the  charwoman,  who,  when  asked  if  she  could 
stand  the  smell,  replied,  “What  smell?”  and  who, 
when  taken  close  to  the  cheeses  and  told  to  sniff 
hard,  said  she  could  detect  a  faint  odor  of  melons. 
It  was  argued  from  this  that  little  injury  could  re¬ 
sult  to  the  woman  from  the  atmosphere,  and  she 
was  left. 

The  hotel  bill  came  to  fifteen  guineas  and  my 
friend,  after  reckoning  everything  up,  found  that 
the  cheeses  had  cost  him  eight-and-sixpence  a 
pound.  He  said  he  dearly  loved  a  bit  of  cheese, 
but  it  was  beyond  his  means;  so  he  determined 
to  get  rid  of  them.  He  threw  them  into  the  canal, 
but  had  to  fish  them  out  again,  as  the  bargemen 
complained.  They  said  it  made  them  feel  quite 
faint.  And,  after  that,  he  took  them  one  dark 
night  and  left  them  in  the  parish  mortuary.  But 
the  coroner  discovered  them,  and  made  a  fear¬ 
ful  fuss. 


Jgtocjc  %$Uu  in  a  gjcrat 


51 


He  said  it  was  a  plot  to  deprive  him  of  his  liv¬ 
ing  by  waking  up  the  corpses. 

My  friend  got  rid  of  them,  at  last,  by  taking 
them  down  to  a  sea-side  town,  and  burying  them 
on  the  beach.  It  gained  the  place  quite  a  reputa¬ 
tion.  Visitors  said  they  had  never  noticed  be¬ 
fore  how  strong  the  air  was,  and  weak-chested 
and  consumptive  people  used  to  throng  there  for 
years  afterwards. 

Fond  as  I  am  of  cheese,  therefore,  i  hold  that 
George  was  right  in  declining*  to  take  any. 

“We  sha’n’t  want  any  tea,”  said  George  (Har¬ 
ris’s  face  fell  at  this);  “but  we’ll  have  a  good, 
round,  square,  slap-up  meal  at  seven — dinner, 
tea,  and  supper  combined.” 

Harris  grew  more  cheerful.  George  suggested 
meat  and  fruit  pies,  cold  meat,  tomatoes,  fruit, 
and  green  stuff.  For  drink,  we  took  some  won¬ 
derful  sticky  concoction  of  Harris’s,  which  you 
mixed  with  water  and  called  lemonade,  plenty 
of  tea,  and  a  bottle  of  whiskey,  in  case,  as  George 
said,  we  got  upset. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  George  harped  too  much 
on  the  getting-upset  idea.  It  seemed  to  me  the 
wrong  spirit  to  go  about  the  trip  in. 

But  I’m  glad  we  took  the  whiskey. 

We  didn’t  take  beer  or  wine.  They  are  a  mis¬ 
take  tip  the  river.  They  make  you  feel  sleepy  and 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
ILLINOIS  LIBRARY 


heavy.  A  glass  in  the  evening  when  you  are  do¬ 
ing  a  mouch  round  the  town  and  looking  at  the 
girls-is  all  right  enough;  but  don’t  drink  when  the 
sun  is  blazing  down  on  your  head,  and  you’ve 
got  hard  work  to  do. 

We  made  a  list  of  the  things  to  be  taken,  and 
a  pretty  lengthy  one  it  was,  before  we  parted  that 
evening.  The  next  day,  which  was  Friday,  we 
got  them  all  together,  and  met  in  the  evening  to 
pack.  We  got  a  big  Gladstone  for  the  clothes, 
and  a  couple  of  hampers  for  the  victuals  and  the 
cooking  utensils.  We  moved  the  table  up  againsl 
the  window,  piled  everything  in  a  heap  in 
middle  of  the  floor,  and  sat  round  and  looked  at 
it.  I  said  I’d  pack. 

I  rather  pride  myself  on  my  packing.  Pack' 
ing  is  one  of  those  many  things  that  I  feel  I  know 
more  about  than  any  other  person  living.  (It  sur¬ 
prises  me  myself,  sometimes,  how  many  of  these 
subjects  there  are.)  I  impressed  the  fact  upon 
George  and  Harris,  and  told  them  they  had  bet¬ 
ter  leave  the  whole  matter  entirely  to  me.  The\' 
fell  into  the  suggestion  with  a  readiness  that  had 
something  uncanny  about  it.  George  put  on 
a  pipe  and  spread  himself  over  the  easy-chair, 
and  Harris  cocked  his  legs  on  the  table  and  lit 
a  cigar. 

This  was  hardly  what  I  intended.  What  I  had 


gltvce  JXXjett  xix  a  gloat. 


53 


meant,  of  course,  was,  that  I  should  boss  the  job, 
and  that  Harris  and  George  should  potter  about 
under  my  directions,  I  pushing  them  aside  every 

now  and  then  with,  “Oh,  you  - !”  “Here, 

let  me  do  it.”  “There  you  are,  simple  enough !” — 
really  teaching  them,  as  you  might  say.  Their 
taking  it  in  the  way  they  did  irritated  me.  There 
is  nothing  does  irritate  me  more  than  seeing  other 
people  sitting  about  doing  nothing  when  I’m 
working. 

I  lived  with  a  man  once  who  used  to  make  me 
mad  that  way.  He  would  loll  on  the  sofa  and 
watch  me  doing  things  by  the  hour  together, 
following  me  round  the  room  with  his  eyes, 
wherever  I  went.  He  said  it  did  him  real  good 
to  look  on  at  me,  messing  about.  He  said  it 
made  him  feel  that  life  was  not  an  idle  dream  to 
be  gaped  and  yawned  through,  but  a  noble  task, 
full  of  duty  and  stern  work.  He  said  he  often 
wondered  now  how  he  could  have  gone  on 
before  he  met  me,  never  having  anybody  to  look 
at  while  they  worked. 

Now,  I’m  not  like  that.  I  can’t  sit  still  and 
see  another  man  slaving  and  working.  I  want 
to  get  up  and  superintend,  and  walk  round  with 
my  hands  in  my  pockets,  and  tell  what  to  do. 
It  is  my  energetic  nature.  I  can’t  help  it 

However,  I  did  not  say  anything,  but  started 


u 


gXjctt  in  a 


the  packing.  It  seemed  a  longer  job  than  I  had 
thought  it  was  going  to  be,  but  I  got  the  bag 
finished  at  last,  and  I  sat  on  it  and  strapped  it 

'‘Ain’t  you  going  to  put  the  boots  in?”  said 
Harris. 

And  I  looked  round  and  found  I  had  forgotten 

them.  That’s  just  like  Harris.  He  couldn’t  have 
said  a  word  until  I’d  got  the  bag  shut  and  strap¬ 
ped,  of  course.  And  George  laughed — one  of 
those  irritating,  senseless,  chuckle-headed,  crack- 
jawed  laughs  of  his.  They  do  make  me  so  wild. 

I  opened  the  bag  and  packed  the  boots  in ;  and 

then,  just  as  I  was  going  to  close  it,  a  horrible 
idea  occurred  to  me.  Had  I  packed  my  tooth¬ 
brush?  I  don’t  know  how  it  is,  but  I  never  do 
know  whether  I’ve  packed  my  tooth-brush. 

My  tooth-brush  is  a  thing  that  haunts  me  when 
Pm  traveling,  and  makes  my  life  a  misery.  I 
dream  that  I  haven’t  packed  it,  and  wake  up  in 
a  cold  perspiration,  and  get  out  of  bed  and  hunt 
for  it.  And,  in  the  morning,  I  pack  it  before  I 
haw  used  it,  and  have  to  unpack  again  to  get  it, 
affld  it  is  always  the  last  thing  I  turn  out  of  the 
bag;  and  then  I  repack  and  forget  it,  and  have  to 
rush  upstairs  for  it  at  the  last  moment  and  carry 
it  to  the  railway  station,  wrapped  up  in  my  pocket- 
handkerchief. 

Of  course  I  had  to  turn  every  mortal  thing  out 


gixvje.c  pUu  itx  a  gloat. 


55 


how,  and,  of  course,  I  could  not  find  it.  I  rum¬ 
maged  the  things  up  into  much  the  same  state 
that  they  must  have  been  in  before  the  world  was 
created,  and  when  chaos  reigned.  Of  course,  I 
found  George’s  and  Harris’s  eighteen  times  over, 
but  I  couldn’t  find  my  own.  I  put  the  things 
back  one  bv  one,  and  held  everything  up  and 
shook  it.  Then  I  found  it  inside  a  boot.  I  re¬ 
packed  once  more. 

When  I  had  finished,  George  asked  if  the  soap 
was  in.  I  said  I  didn’t  care  a  hang  whether  the 
soap  was  in  or  whether  it  wasn’t;  and  I  slammed 
the  bag  to  and  strapped  it,  and  found  that  I  had 
packed  my  tobacco  pouch  in  it  and  had  to  re¬ 
open  it  It  got  shut  tip  finally  at  10:05  p.  m., 
and  then  there  remained  the  hampers  to  do. 
Harris  said  that  we  should  be  wanting  to  start 
in  less  than  twelve  hours’  time,  and  thought  that 
he  and  George  had  better  do  the  rest;  and  I 
agreed  and  sat  down,  and  they  had  a  go. 

Tiiey  began  in  a  light-hearted  spirit,  evidently 
intending  to  show  me  how  to  do  it.  I  made  no 
comment  I  only  waited.  When  George  is 
hanged,  Harris  will  be  the  worst  packer  in  this 
world;  and  I  looked  at  the  piles  of  plates  and 
cups,  and  kettles,  and  bottles  and  jars,  and  pies, 
and  stoves,  and  cakes,  and  tomatoes,  etc.,  and 
felt  that  the  thing  would  soon  become  exciting. 


Qftxzz  fjgt jctx  itx  a  ^xrat. 


f)6 

It  did.  They  started  with  breaking  a  cup.  That 
was  the  first  thing  they  did.  They  did  that  just 
to  show  you  what  they  could  do,  and  to  get  you 

haterested. 

Then  Harris  packed  the  strawberry  jam  on 
top  of  a  tomato  and  squashed  it,  and  they  had  to 
pick  out  the  tomato  with  a  teaspoon. 

And  then  it  was  George’s  turn,  and  he  trod  on 
the  butter.  I  didn’t  say  anything,  but  I  came 
over  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  table  and  watched 
them.  It  irritated  them  more  than  anything  I 
could  have  said.  I  felt  that.  It  made  them  nerv¬ 
ous  and  excited,  and  they  stepped  on  things,  and 
put  things  behind  them,  and  then  couldn’t  find 
them  when  the}'  wanted  them;  and  they  packed 
the  pies  at  the  bottom,  and  put  heavy  things  on 
top,  and  smashed  the  pies  in. 

They  upset  salt  over  everything,  and  as  for  the 
butter!  I  never  saw  two  men  do  more  with  one- 
and-two-pence  worth  of  butter  in  my  whole  life 
than  they  did.  After  George  had  got  it  off  his 
slipper,  they  tried  to  put  it  in  the  kettle.  It 
wouldn’t  go  in,  and  what  was  in  wouldn’t  come 
out.  They  did  scrape  it  out  at  last,  and  put  it 
down  on  a  chair,  and  Harris  sat  on  it,  and  it 
stuck  to  him,  and  they  went  locking  for  it  all  over 
the  room. 


Qhxzz  pX m  in  a  gcrat. 


57 


“111  take  my  oath  I  put  it  down  on  that  chair,” 
said  George,  staring  at  the  empty  seat. 

“I  saw  you  do  it  myself,  not  a  minute  ago,” 
said  Harris. 

Then  they  started  round  the  room  again  look¬ 
ing  for  it;  and  then  they  met  again  in  the  center, 
and  stared  at  one  another. 

“Most  extraordinary  thing  I  ever  heard  of,” 
said  George. 

“So  mysterious!”  said  Harris. 

Then  George  got  around  at  the  back  of  Harris 
and  saw  it. 

“Why,  here  it  is  all  the  time,”  he  exclaimed  in¬ 
dignantly. 

“Where?”  cried  Harris,  spinning  round. 

“Stand  still,  can’t  you!”  roared  George,  flying 
after  him. 

And  they  got  it  off,  and  packed  ff  in  the  tea¬ 
pot. 

Montmorency  was  in  it  all,  of  course.  Mont¬ 
morency’s  ambition  in  life  is  to  get  in  the  way 
and  be  sworn  at.  If  he  can  squirm  in  anywhere 
where  he  particularly  is  not  wanted,  and  be  a 
perfect  nuisance,  and  make  people  mad,  and  have 
things  thrown  at  his  head,  then  he  feels  his  day 
has  not  been  wasted. 

To  get  somebody  to  stumble  over  him,  and 
curse  him  steadily  for  an  hour,  is  his  highest  aim 


58 


gjtae*  in  n  gxral 


and  object;  and,  when  he  has  succeeded  m  ao 
coniplishing  this,  his  conceit  becomes  quite  un¬ 
bearable. 

He  came  and  sat  down  on  things,  just  when 
they  were  wanted  to  be  packed;  and  he  labored 
under  the  fixed  belief  that,  whenever  Harris  or 
George  reached  out  their  hand  for  anything,  it 
was  his  cold,  damp  nose  that  they  wanted.  He 
put  his  leg  into  the  jam,  and  he  worried  the  tea¬ 
spoons,  and  he  pretended  that  the  lemons  were 
rats,  and  got  into  the  hamper  and  killed  three  of 
them  before  Harris  could  land  hfm  with  the  fry¬ 
ing-pan. 

Harris  said  I  encouraged  him.  I  didiTt  en¬ 
courage  him.  A  dog  like  that  don’t  want  any  en¬ 
couragement  It’s  the  natural,  original  sin  that 
is  born  in  him  that  makes  him  do  things  like  that. 

The  packing  was  done  at  12.50;  and  Harris  sat 
on  the  big  hamper,  and  said  he  hoped  nothing 
would  be  found  broken.  George  said  that  if 
anything  was  broken  it  was  broken,  which  re- 
Section  seemed  to  comfort  him.  He  also  said  he 
was  ready  for  bed.  We  were  all  ready  for  bed. 
Harris  was  to  sleep  with  us  that  night,  and  we 
went  upstahs. 

We  tossed  for  beds,  and  Harris  had  to  sleep 
with  me.  Me  said: 

va-V'  prefer  the  inside  or  the  outside,  JJ” 


gbaxe  in  n  l&crak  5i> 


I  said  I  generally  preferred  to  sleep  inside  a 
bed. 

Harris  said  it  was  old 

George  said: 

“What  time  shall  I  wake  you  fellows^ 

Harris  said: 

“Seven-” 

I  said: 

“No — six,”  because  I  wanted  to  write  some  let¬ 
ters. 

Harris  and  I  had  a  bit  of  a  row  over  it,  but  at 
last  split  the  difference,  and  said  half-past  six. 

“Wake  us  at  6.30,  George/’  we  said 

George  made  no  answer,  and  we  found,  on 
going  over,  that  he  had  been  asleep  for  some 
time;  so  we  placed  the  bath  where  he  could  tum¬ 
ble  into  it  on  getting  out  in  the  morning,  and 
went  to  bed  ourselves. 


CHAPTER  V. 

It  was  Mrs.  Poppets  that  woke  me  up  next 
morning. 

She  said: 

“Do  you  know  that  it’s  nearly  nine  o’clock, 
sir?” 

“Nine  o’what?"  I  cried,  starting  up. 


60 


'jgUxzz  gXm  in  a  gtoxt. 


“Nine  o’clock,”  she  replied,  through  t4ie  key¬ 
hole.  “I  thought  you  was  a-oversleepmg  your¬ 
selves.” 

I  woke  Harris,  and  told  him.  He  said: 

“I  thought  you  wanted  to  get  up  at  six?” 

“So  I  did,”  I  answered;  “why  didn’t  you  wake 
me?” 

“How  could  I  wake  you.  when  you  didn’t  wake 
me?”  he  retorted.  “Now  we  shan’t  get  on  the 
water  till  after  twelve.  I  wonder  you  take  the 
trouble  to  get  up  at  all.” 

“Urn,”  I  replied,  “lucky  for  you  that  I  do.  If 
I  hadn’t  woke  you,  you’d  have  lain  there  for  the 
whole  fortnight.” 

We  snarled  at  one  another  in  this  strain  for  the 
next  few  minutes,  when  we  were  interrupted  by  a 
defiant  snore  from  George.  It  reminded  us,  for 
the  first  time  since  our  being  called,  of  his  ex¬ 
istence.  There  he  lay — the  man  who  had  wanted 
to  know  what  time  he  should  wake  us — on  his 
back,  with  his  mouth  wide  open,  and  b:.s  knees 
stuck  up. 

I  don’t  know  why  it  should  be,  I  am  sure;  but 
the  sight  of  another  man  asleep  in  bed  when  I 
am  up,  maddens  me.  It  seems  so  shocking  to 
see  the  precious  hours  of  a  man’s  life — the  price¬ 
less  moments  that  will  never  come  back  to  him 
again — being  wasted  in  mere  brutish  sleep. 


glxvjes  pun  in  a  goat. 


61 


There  was  George,  throwing  away  in  hideous 
sloth  the  inestimable  gift  of  time;  his  valuable 
life,  every  second  of  which  he  would  have  to  ac¬ 
count  for  hereafter,  passing  away  from  him,  un¬ 
used.  He  might  have  been  up  stuffing  himself 
with  eggs  and  bacon,  irritating  the  dog,  or  flirt¬ 
ing  with  the  slavey,  instead  of  sprawling  there, 
sunk  in  soul-clogging  oblivion. 

It  was  a  terrible  thought  Harris  and  I  ap¬ 
peared  to  be  struck  by  it  at  the  same  instant.  We 
determined  to  save  him,  and,  in  this  noble  re¬ 
solve,  our  own  dispute  was  forgotten.  We  flew 
across  and  slung  the  clothes  off  him,  and  Harris 
landed  him  one  with  a  slipper,  and  I  shouted  in 
his  ear,  and  he  awoke. 

“Wasermarrer?”  he  observed,  sitting  up. 

“Get  up,  you  fat-headed  chunk!”  roared  Har¬ 
ris.  “It’s  quarter  to  ten.” 

“What!”  he  shrieked,  jumping  out  of  bed  into 
the  bath;  “ — Who  the  thunder  put  this  thing 
here  ?” 

We  told  him  he  must  have  been  a  fool  not  to 
see  the  bath. 

We  finished  dressing,  and,  when  it  came  to  the 
extras,  we  remembered  that  we  had  packed  the 
tooth-brushes  and  the  brush  and  comb  (that 
tooth-brush  of  mine  will  be  the  death  of  me,  I 
know),  and  we  had  to  go  down-stairs,  and  fish 


62 


35  tax  c  T&Lzn  in  a  l&cKsfc. 


them  out  of  the  bag.  And  when  we  had  done 
that  George  wanted  the  shaving  tackle.  We  toki 
him  that  he  would  have  to  go  without  shaving 
that  morning,  as  we  weren’t  going  to  unpack 
that  bag  again  for  him,  nor  for  any  one  like  him. 

He  said: 

“Don’t  be  absurd.  How  can  I  go  into  the  dty 
like  this?” 

It  was  certainly  rather  rough  on  the  city,  but 
what  cared  we  for  human  suffering?  As  Harris 
said,  in  his  common,  vulgar  way,  the  city  would 
have  to  lump  it 

We  went  down-stairs  to  breakfast  Montmor¬ 
ency  had  invited  two  other  dogs  to  come  and  see 
him  off,  and  they  were  whiling  away  the  time  by 
fighting  on  the  doorstep.  We  calmed  them  with 
an  umbrella,  and  sat  down  to  chops  and  cold  beei 

Harris  said: 

“The  great  thing  is  to  make  a  good  breakfast,” 
and  he  started  with  a  coup*e  of  chops,  saying  that 
he  would  take  these  while  they  were  hot,  as  the 
beef  could  wait 

George  got  hold  of  the  paper,  and  read  us  out 
the  boating  fatalities;  and  the  weather  forecast, 
which  latter  prophesied  “rain,  cold,  wet  to  fine” 
(whatever  more  than  usually  ghastly  thing  is 
weather  that  may  be),  “occasional  local  thunder 
storms,  east  wind,  with  general  depression  over 


Store  pt m  in  a  ^loat. 


9$ 


the  Midland  Counties  (London  and  Channel). 
Bar.  falling.” 

I  do  think  that,  of  all  the  silly,  irritating  tom- 
foolishness  by  which  we  are  plagued,  this  “wea¬ 
ther  forecast”  fraud  is  about  the  most  aggravat¬ 
ing.  It  “forecasts”  precisely  what  happened  yes¬ 
terday  or  the  day  before,  and  precisely  the  oppo¬ 
site  of  what  is  going  to  happen  to-day. 

I  remember  a  holiday  of  mine  being  complete¬ 
ly  ruined  one  late  autumn  by  our  paying  atten¬ 
tion  to  the  weather  report  of  the  local  newspaper. 
“Heavy  showers,  with  thunder-storms,  may  be 
expected  to-day,”  it  would  say  on  Monday,  and  so 
we  would  give  up  our  picnic,  and  stop  indoors  all 
day,  waiting  for  the  rain.  And  people  would  pass 
the  house,  going  off  in  wagonettes  and  coaches 
as  jolly  and  merry  as  could  be,  the  sun  shining 
out,  and  not  a  cloud  to  be  seen. 

“Ah !”  we  said,  as  we  stood  looking  out  at  them 
through  the  window,  “won’t  they  come  home 
soaked!” 

And  we  chuckled  to  think  how  wet  they  were 
going  to  get,  and  came  back  and  stirred  the  fire, 
and  got  our  books,  and  aranged  our  specimens 
of  seaweed  and  cockle  shells.  By  twelve  o’clock, 
with  the  sun  pouring  into  the  room,  the  heat  be¬ 
came  quite  oppressive,  and  we  wondered  when 


64 


gfeueje  in  n 


those  heavy  showers  and  occasional  thunder* 
storms  were  going  to  begin. 

“Ah !  they’ll  come  in  the  afternoon,  you’ll  find,” 
we  said  to  each  other.  “Oh,  won’t  those  people 
get  wet.  What  a  lark !” 

At  one  o’clock  the  landlady  would  come  in  to 
ask  if  we  weren’t  going  out,  as  it  seemed  such  a 
lovely  day. 

“No,  no,”  we  replied,  with  a  knowing  chuckle, 
“not  we.  We  don’t  mean  to  get  wet — no,  no.” 

And  when  the  afternoon  was  nearly  gone,  and 
still  there  was  no  sign  of  rain,  we  tried  to  cheer 
ourselves  up  with  the  idea  that  it  would  come 
down  all  at  once,  just  as  the  people  had  started 
for  home,  and  were  out  of  the  reach  of  any  shel¬ 
ter,  and  that  they  would  thus  get  more  drenched 
than  ever.  But  not  a  drop  ever  fell,  and  it  fin¬ 
ished  a  grand  day,  and  a  lovely  night  after  it. 

The  next  morning  we  would  read,  that  it  was 
going  to  be  a  “warm,  fine  to  set-fair  day;  much 
heat;”  and  we  would  dress  ourselves  in  flimsy 
things,  and  go  out,  and,  half  an  hour  after  we  had 
started,  it  would  commence  to  rain  hard,  and  a  bit¬ 
terly  cold  wind  would  spring  up,  and  both  would 
keep  on  steadily  for  the  whole  day,  and  we  would 
come  home  with  colds  and  rheumatism  all  over 
us,  and  go  to  bed. 

The  weather  is  a  thing  that  is  beyond  me  alto 


Qhvzz  gbXcu  in  a  goat. 


65 


gether.  1  never  can  understand  it.  The  barom¬ 
eter  is  useless;  it  is  as  misleading  as  the  news¬ 
paper  forecast. 

There  was  one  hanging  up  in  a  hotel  at  Oxford 
at  which  I  was  staying  last  spring,  and,  when  I 
got  there,  it  was  pointing  to  “set  fair.”  It  was 
simply  pouring  with  rain  outside,  and  had  been 
all  day;  and  I  couldn’t  quite  make  matters  out. 
I  tapped  the  barometer,  and  it  jumped  up  and 
pointed  to  “very  dry.” 

The  Boots  stopped  as  he  was  parsing  and  said 
he  expected  it  meant  to-morrow.  I  fancied  that 
maybe  it  was  thinking  of  the  week  before  last, 
but  Boots  said,  no,  he  thought  not. 

I  tapped  it  again  the  next  morning,  and  it  went 
up-still  higher,  and  the  rain  came  down  fa:ter  than 
ever.  On  Wednesday  I  went  and  hit  it  again, 
and  the  pointer  went  round  toward  “set  fair,” 
“very  dry,”  and  “much  heat,”  until  it  was  stopped 
by  the  peg,  and  couldn’t  go  any  further.  It  tried 
its  best,  but  the  instrument  was  built  so  that  it 
couldn’t  prophesy  fine  weather  any  harder  than 
it  did  without  breaking  itself.  It  evidently 
wanted  to  go  on,  and  prognosticate  drought,  and 
water,  famine,  and  sunstroke,  and  simoons,  and 
such  things,  but  the  peg  prevented  it,  and  it  had 
to  be  content  with  pointing  to  the  mere  common¬ 
place  “very  dry.” 


16 


gfercs  2$tjcw  in  u  gjcmSL 


Meanwhile  the  rain  came  down  in  a  steady 
.v/rrent,  and  the  lower  part  of  the  town  was  under 
water,  owing  to  the  river  having  overflowed. 

Boots  said  it  was  evident  tha^  we  were  going 
to  have  a  prolonged  spell  of  grand  weather  some 
time,  and  read  out  a  poem  which  was  printed 
ever  the  top  of  the  oracle,  about 

‘TfOng  foretold,  long  last; 

Short  notice,  soon  past/* 

The  fine  weather  never  came  that  summer.  I 
expect  that  machine  must  have  been  referring  to 
the  following  spring. 

Then  there  are  those  new  styles  of  barometers, 
the  long  straight  ones.  I  never  can  make  head  or 
tail  of  those.  There  is  one  side  for  ro  A.  M. 
yesterday,  and  one  side  for  io  A.  M.  today;  but 
you  can’t  always  get  there  as  early  as  ten,  you 
know.  It  rises  or  falls  for  rain  and  fine,  with 
much  or  less  wind,  and  one  end  is  “Nly*  and  the 
other  “Ely”  (what’s  Ely  got  to  do  with  it?),  and  if 
you  tap  it,  it  doesn’t  tell  you  anything.  And 
you’ve  got  to  correct  it  to  sea-level,  and  reduce 
to  Fahrenheit,  and  even  then  I  don’t  know  the 
answer. 

But  who  wants  to  be  foretold  the  weather?  It 
is  bad  enough  when  it  comes,  without  our  hav- 


STxxtjcjc  pbeu  in  a  goat. 


67 


tng  the  misery  of  knowing  about  it  beforehand. 
The  prophet  we  like  is  the  old  man  who,  on  the 
particularly  gloomy-looking  morning  of  some 
day  when  we  particularly  want  it  to  be  fine,  looks 
round  the  horizon  with  a  particularly  knowing 
eye,  and  says 

“Oh,  no,  sir,  I  think  it  will  clear  up  all  right 
It  will  break  all  right  enough,  sir.” 

“Ah,  he  knows,”  we  say,  as  we  wish  him  good 
morning  and  start  off;  “wonderful  bow  these  old 
fellows  can  tell!” 

And  we  feel  an  affection  for  that  man  which 
is  not  at  all  lessened  by  the  circumstances  of  its 
not  clearing  up,  but  continuing  to  rain  steadily 
all  day. 

“Ah,  well,”  we  feel,  “he  did  his  best.” 

For  the  man  that  prophesies  us  bad  weather, 
on  the  contrary,  we  entertain  only  bitter  and  re¬ 
vengeful  thoughts. 

“Going  to  clear  up,  d’ye  think?"  we  shout  cheer¬ 
ily,  as  we  pass. 

“Well,  no,  sir;  I’m  afraid  it’s  settled  down  for 
the  day,”  he  replies,  shaking  his  head. 

“Stupid  old  fool,”  we  mutter,  “what’s  he  know 
about  it?”  And,  if  his  portent  proves  correct,  we 
come  back  feeling  still  more  angry  against  him, 
and  with  a  vague  notion  that,  somehow  or  other, 
he  has  had  something  to  do  with  it. 


Qlvcw  Pm  in  a  goat. 


it  was  too  bright  and  sunny  on  this  especial 
morning  for  George’s  blood-curdling  readings 
about  “Bar.  falling,  atmospheric  disturbance, 
passing  in  an  oblique  line  over  Southern  Europe/’ 
and  “pressure  increasing,”  to  very  much  upset 
us;  and  so,  finding  that  he  could  not  make  us 
wretched,  and  was  only  wasting  his  time,  he 
sneaked  the  cigarette  that  I  had  carefully  rolled 
up  for  myself,  and  went. 

Then  Harris  and  I,  having  finished  up  the  few 
things  left  on  the  table,  carted  out  our  luggage 
on  to  the  doorstep,  and  waited  for  a  cab. 

There  seemed  a  good  deal  of  luggage,  when  we 
put  it  all  together.  There  was  the  Gladstone  and 
the  small  handbag,  and  the  two  hampers,  and  a 
large  roll  of  rugs,  and  some  four  or  five  over¬ 
coats  and  mackintoshes,  and  a  few  umbrellas, 
and  then  there  was  a  melon  by  itself  in  a  bag,  be¬ 
cause  it  was  too  bulky  to  go  in  anywhere,  and  a 
couple  of  pounds  of  grapes  in  another  bag,  and  a 
Japanese  paper  umbrella,  and  a  frying-pan, 
which,  being  too  long  to  pack,  we  had  wrapped 
round  with  brown  paper.  It  did  look  a  lot,  and 
Harris  and  I  began  to  feel  rather  ashamed  of  it, 
though  why  we  should  be,  I  can’t  see.  No  cab 
came  by,  but  the  street  boys  did,  and  got  inter¬ 
ested  in  the  show,  apparently,  and  stopped. 

Biggs’s  boy  was  the  first  to  come  round.  Biggs 


gtajejc  fpijett  in  a  gxrat. 


OT- 


is  our  greengrocer,  and  his  chief  talent  lies  in 
securing  the  services  of  the  most  abandoned  and 
unprincipled  errand-boys  that  civilization  has  as 
yet  produced.  If  anything  more  than  usually  vil¬ 
lainous  in  the  boy-line  crops  up  in  our  neighbor¬ 
hood,  we  know  that  it  is  Biggs’s  latest.  I  was  told 
that,  at  the  time  of  the  Great  Coram  Street  mur¬ 
der,  it  was  promptly  concluded  by  our  street  that 
Biggs’s  boy  (for  that  period)  was  at  the  bottom 
of  it,  and  had  he  not  been  able,  in  reply  to  the 
severe  cross-examination,  to  which  he  was  sub¬ 
jected  by  No.  19,  when  he  called  there  for  orders 
the  morning  after  the  crime  (assisted  by  No.  2it 
who  happened  to  be  on  the  step  at  the  time),  to 
prove  a  complete  alibi,  it  would  have  gone  hard 
with  him.  I  didn’t  know  Biggs’s  boy  at  that  times 
but,  from  what  I  have  seen  of  them  since,  I  should 
not  have,  attached  much  importance  to  that  alibi 
myself. 

Biggs’s  boy,  as  I  have  said,  came  round  the 
corner.  He  was  evidently  in  a  great  hurry  when 
he  first  dawned  upon  the  vision,  but,  on  catching 
sight  of  Harris  and  me,  and  Montmorency,  and 
the  things,  he  eased  up  and  stared.  Harris  and  I 
frowned  at  him.  This  might  have  wounded  a 
more  sensitive  nature,  but  Biggs’s  boys  are  notg 
as  a  rule,  touchy.  He  came  to  a  dead  stop,  a 
yard  from  our  step,  and  leaning  up  against  the 


70 


<£hvee  iXTett  in  a  IJmxt, 


rahiwgs,  and  selecting  a  straw  to  chew,  fixed  us 
with  his  eye.  He  evidently  meant  to  see  this 
thing  out. 

In  another  moment  the  grocer’s  boy  passed  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  street.  Biggs’s  boy  hailed 
him: 

“Hi!  ground  floor  o’  42’s  a-moving.” 

The  grocer’s  boy  came  across,  and  took  up  a 
position  on  the  other  side  of  the  step.  Then  the 
young  gentleman  from  the  boot-shop  stopped, 
and  joined  Biggs’s  boy;  while  the  empty-can  su¬ 
perintendent  from  “The  Blue  Posts”  took  up  an 
independent  position  on  the  curb. 

“They  ain’t  a-going  to  starve,  are  they?”  said 
the  gentleman  from  the  boot-shop. 

“Ah!  you’d  want  to  take  a  thing  or  two  with 
you,”  retorted  “The  Blue  Post,”  “if  you  was  a-go¬ 
ing  to  cross  the  Atlantic  in  a  small  boat.” 

“They  ain’t  a-going  to  cross  the  Atlantic,” 
struck  in  Bigg’s  boy;  “they’re  a-going  to  find 
Stanley.” 

By  this  time  quite  a  small  crowd  had  collected, 
and  people  were  asking  each  other  what  was  the 
matter.  One  party  (the  young  and  giddy  por¬ 
tion  of  the  crowd)  held  that  it  was  a  wedding,  * 
and  pointed  out  Harris  as  the  bridegroom;  while 
the  elder  and  more  thoughtful  among  the  popu- 


gtocje  IpUtt  in  a  goat. 


71 


lace  inclined  to  the  idea  that  it  was  a  funeral  and 
that  I  was  probably  the  corpse’s  brother. 

At  last,  an  empty  cab  turned  up  (it  is  a  street 
where,  as  a  rule,  and  when  they  are  not  wanted, 
empty  cabs  pass  at  the  rate  of  three  a  minute,  and 
hang  about,  and  get  in  your  way),  and  packing 
ourselves  and  our  belongings  into  it,  and  shoot¬ 
ing  out  a  couple  of  Montmorency’s  friends,  who 
had  evidently  sworn  never  to  forsake  him,  we 
drove  away  amidst  the  cheers  of  the  crowd, 
Biggs’s  boy  shying  a  carrot  after  us  for  luck. 

We  got  to  Waterloo  at  eleven,  and  asked  where 
the  eleven-five  started  from.  Of  course  nobody 
knew;  nobody  at  Waterloo  ever  does  know  where 
a  train  is  going  to  start  from,  or  where  a  train 
when  it  does  start  is  going  to,  or  anything  about 
it.  The  porter  who  took  our  things  thought  it 
would  go  from  number  two  platform,  while  an¬ 
other  porter,  with  whom  he  discussed  the  ques¬ 
tion,  had  heard  a  rumor  that  it  would  go  from 
number  one.  The  station-master,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  convinced  it  would  start  from  the  local. 

To  put  an  end  to  the  matter,  we  went  upstairs, 
and  asked  the  trafhc  superintendent,  and  he  told 
us  that  he  had  just  met  a  man  who  said  he  had 
seen  it  at  number  three  platform.  We  went  to 
number  three  platform,  but  the  authorities  there 
said  tha*-  they  rather  thought  that  train  was  the 


Slxvce  gAcu  in  a  goat. 


Southampton  express,  or  else  the  Windsor  loop. 
But  they  were  sure  it  wasn’t  the  Kingston  train, 
though  why  they  were  sure  it  wasn’t  they  couldn’t 

say. 

Then  our  porter  said  he  thought  that  must  be 
it  on  the  high-level  platform ;  said  he  thought  he 
knew  the  train.  So  we  went  to  the  high-level 
platform,  and  saw  the  engine-driver,  and  asked 
him  if  he  was  going  to  Kingston.  He  said  he 
couldn’t  say  for  certain,  of  course,  but  that  he 
rather  thought  he  was.  Anyhow,  if  he  wasn’t  the 
0:05  for  Kingston,  he  said  he  was  pretty  con¬ 
fident  he  was  the  9:32  for  Virginia  Water,  or  the 
10  A.  M.  express  for  the  Isle  of  Wight,  or  some¬ 
where  in  that  direction,  and  we  should  all  know 
when  we  got  there.  We  slipped  half-a-crown  in¬ 
to  his  hand,  and  begged  him  to  be  the  1 1 105  for 
Kingston. 

“Nobody  will  ever  know,  on  this  line,”  we  said, 
Wwhat  you  are,  or  when  you’re  going.  You  know 
the  way,  you  slip  off  quietly  and  go  to  Kings¬ 
ton.” 

“Well,  I  don’t  know,  gents,”  replied  the  noble 
fellow,  “but  I  suppose  some  train’s  got  to  go  to 
Kingston ;  and  I’ll  do  it.  Gimme  the  half-crown.” 

Thus  we  got  to  Kingston  by  the  London  and 
South-western  Railway. 

We  learnt,  afterward,  that  the  train  we  had 


3JTxvjeje  gXcix  iw  a  gcrat. 


n 


come  by  was  really  the  Exeter  mail,  and  that  they 
had  spent  hours  at  Waterloo  looking  for  it,  and 
nobody  knew  what  had  become  of  it. 

Oiu  boat  was  waiting  for  us  at  Kingston  just 
below  bridge,  and  to  it  we  wended  our  way, 
and  round  it  we  stored  our  luggage,  and  into  ii 
we  stepped. 

“Are  you  all  right,  sir?"  said  the  man. 

“Right  it  is,”  we  answered;  and  with  Harris  aft 
the  sculls  and  I  at  the  tiller-lines,  and  Montmor¬ 
ency,  unhappy  and  deeply  suspicious,  in  the  prowf 
out  we  shot  on  to  the  watets  which,  for  a  fort¬ 
night,  were  to  be  our  home. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

It  was  a  glorious  morning,  late  spring  or  early 
summer,  as  you  care  to  take  it,  when  the  dainty 
sheen  of  grass  and  leaf  is  blushing  to  a  deeper 
green;  and  the  year  seems  like  a  fair  young  maid, 
trembling  with  strange,  wakening  pulses  on  the 
brink  of  womanhood. 

The  quaint  back  streets  of  Kingston,  where 
they  came  down  to  the  water’s  edge,  looked  quite 
picturesque  in  the  flashing  sunlight,  the  glinting 
*i?er  with  its  drifting  barges,  the  wooded  tow» 


$fr*xe  PCjcw  in  a  ^xrat. 


74 

path,  the  trim-kept  villas  on  the  other  side,  Har¬ 
ris,  in  a  red  and  orange  blazer,  grunting  away  at 
the  sculls,  the  distant  glimpses  of  the  gray  oid 
palace  of  the  Tudors,  all  made  a  sunny  picture, 
so  bright  but  calm,  so  full  of  life,  and  yet  so  peace¬ 
ful,  that,  early  in  the  day  though  it  was,  I  felt  my¬ 
self  being  dreamily  lulled  off  into  a  musing  fit. 
i  I  mused  on  Kingston,  or  “Kyningestun,”  as  it 
was  once  called  in  the  days  when  Saxon  “kinges” 
were  crowned  there.  Great  Caesar  crossed  the 
river  there,  and  the  Roman  legions  camped  upon 
its  sloping  uplands.  Caesar,  like,  in  later  years, 
Elizabeth,  seems  to  have  stopped  everywhere; 
only  he  was  more  respectable  than  good  Queen 
Bess;  he  didn’t  put  up  at  the  public-houses. 

She  was  nuts  on  public-houses,  was  England’s 
Virgin  Queen.  There’s  scarcely  a  pub.  of  any 
attractions  within  ten  miles  of  London  that  she 
does  not  seem  to  have  looked  in  at,  or  stopped 
at,  or  slept  at,  some  time  or  other.  I  wonder 
now,  supposing  Harris,  say,  turned  over  a  new 
leaf,  and  became  a  great  and  good  man,  and  got 
to  be  Prime  Minister,  and  died,  if  they  would  put 
up  signs  over  the  public-houses  that  lie  had  pa¬ 
tronized:  “Plarris  had  a  glass  of  bitter  in  this 
house;”  “Harris  had  two  of  Scotch  cold  here  in 
the  summer  of  ’88;”  “Harris  was  chucked  from 
here  in  December,  t886.'‘ 


ghxzt  |$Xm  iix  a  ^oat. 


75 


No.  there  would  be  too  many  of  them!  It 
would  be  the  houses  that  he  had  never  entered 
that  would  become  famous.  ‘'Only  house  in 
South  London  that  Harris  never  had  a  drink  in!” 
The  people  would  flock  to  it  to  see  what  could 
have  been  the  matter  with  it. 

How  poor  weak-minded  King  Edwy  must  have 
hated  Kyningestun!  The  coronation  feast  had 
been  too  much  for  him.  Maybe  boar’s  head 
stuffed  with  sugar-plums  did  not  agree  with  him 
(it  wouldn’t  with  me,  I  know),  and  he  had  had 
enough  of  sack  and  mead;  so  he  slipped  from  the 
noisy  revel  to  steal  a  quiet  moonlight  hour  with 
his  beloved  Elgiva. 

Perhaps,  from  the  casement,  standing  hand  in 
hand,  they  were  watching  the  calm  moonlight  on 
the  river,  while  from  the  distant  halls  the  boister¬ 
ous  revelry  floated  in  broken  bursts  of  faint-heard 
din  and  tumult. 

Then  brutal  Odo  and  St.  Dunstan  force  their 
rude  way  into  the  quiet  room,  and  hurl  coarse  in¬ 
sults  at  the  sweet-faced  Queen,  apd  drag  poor 
Edwy  back  to  the  loud  clamor  of  the  drunken 
brawl. 

Years  later,  to  the  crash  of  battle-music,  Saxon 
kings  and  Saxon  revelry  were  buried  side  by  side, 
and  Kingston’s  greatness  passed  away  for  a  time, 
to  rise  once  more  when  Hampton  Court  became 


76 


QTxxzz  |Pj etc  in  a  Ipjcrat. 


the  palace  of  the  Tudors  and  the  Stuarts,  and  the 
royal  barges  strained  at  their  moorings  on  the 
river’s  bank,  and  bright-cloaked  gallants  swag¬ 
gered  down  the  water-steps  to  cry:  “What 
Ferry,  ho!  Gadzooks,  gramercy.” 

Many  of  the  old  houses,  round  about,  speak 
very  plainly  of  those  days  when  Kingston  was  a 
royal  borough,  and  nobles  and  courtiers  lived 
there,  near  their  King,  and  the  long  road  to  the 
palace  gates  was  gay  all  day  with  clanking  steel 
and  prancing  palfreys,  and  rustling  silks  and  vel¬ 
vets,  and  fair  faces.  The  large  and  spacious 
houses,  with  their  oriel,  latticed  windows,  their 
huge  fire-places,  and  their  gabled  roofs,  breathe 
of  the  days  of  hose  and  doublet,  of  pearl-embroid¬ 
ered  stomachers,  and  complicated  oaths.  They 
were  upraised  in  the  days  “when  men  knew  how 
to  build.”  The  hard,  red  bricks  have  only  grown 
more  firmly  .set  with  time,  and  their  oak  stairs 
do  not  creak  and  grunt  when  you  try  to  go  down 
them  quietly. 

Speaking  of  oak  staircases  reminds  me  that 
there  is  a  magnificent  carved  oak  staircase  in  one 
of  the  houses  in  Kingston.  It  is  a  shop  now,  in 
the  marketplace,  but  it  was  evidently  once  the 
mansion  of  some  great  personage.  A  friend  of 
mine,  who  lives  at  Kingston,  went  in  there  to  buy 
a  hat  one  day,  and,  in  a  thoughtless  moment,  put 


gfrcje*  putt  in  a  g^at.  77 

his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  paid  for  it  then  and 
there. 

The  shopman  (he  knows  my  friend)  was  natur¬ 
ally  a  little  staggered  at  first;  but,  quickly  recov¬ 
ering  himself,  and  feeling  that  something  ought 
to  be  done  to  encourage  this  sort  of  thing,  asked 
our  hero  if  he  would  like  to  see  some  fine  old 
carved  oak.  My  friend  said  he  would,  and  the 
shopman,  thereupon,  took  him  through  the  shop, 
and  up  the  staircase  of  the  house.  The  balusters 
were  a  superb  piece  of  workmanship,  and  the  wall 
all  the  way  up  was  oak-paneled,  with  carving 
that  would  have  done  credit  to  a  palace. 

From  the  stairs,  they  went  into  the  drawing¬ 
room,  which  was  a  large,  bright  room  decorated 
with  a  somewhat  startling  though  cheerful  paper 
of  a  blue  ground.  There  was  nothing,  however, 
remarkable  about  the  apartment,  and  my  friend 
wondered  why  he  had  been  brought  there.  The 
proprietor  went  up  to  the  paper,  and  tapped  it. 

It  gave  forth  a  wooden  sound. 

“Oak,”  he  explained.  “All  carved  oak,  right 
up  to  the  ceiling,  just  the  same  as  you  saw  on  the 
staircase.” 

“But,  great  Caesar!  man,”  expostulated  my 
friend;  “you  don’t  mean  to  say  you  have  covered 
over  carved  oak  with  blue  wall-paper?” 

“Yes,”  was  the  reply;  “it  was  expensive  work.  - 


78 


lyteu  in  a  ^jcrat. 


Had  to  match-board  it  all  over  first,  of  course. 
But  the  room  looks  cheerful  now.  It  was  awful 
gloomy  before.” 

I  can’t  say  I  altogether  blame  the  man  (which 
is  doubtless  a  great  relief  to  his  mind).  From  his 
point  of  view,  which  would  be  that  of  the  average 
house-holder,  desiring  to  take  life  as  lightly  as 
possible,  and  not  that  of  the  old-curiosity-shop 
maniac,  there  is  reason  on  his  side.  Carved  oak 
is  very  pleasant  to  look  at,  and  to  have  a  little  of, 
but  it  is  no  doubt  somewhat  depressing  to  live 
in,  for  those  whose  fancy  does  not  lie  that  way. 
It  would  be  like  living  in  a  church. 

No,  what  was  sad  in  his  case  was  that  he,  who 
didn’t  care  for  carved  oak,  should  have  his  draw¬ 
ing-room  paneled  with  it,  while  people  who  do 
care  for  it  have  to  pay  enormous  prices  to  get  it. 
It  seems  to  be  the  rule  of  this  world.  Each  per¬ 
son  has  what  he  doesn’t  want,  and  other  people 
have  what  he  does  want. 

Married  men  have  wives,  and  don’t  seem  to 
want  them ;  and  young  single  fellows  cry  out  that 
they  can’t  get  them.  Poor  people  who  can  hardly 
keep  themselves  have  eight  hearty  children.  Rich 
old  couples,  with  no  one  to  leave  their  money  to, 
die  childless. 

Then  there  are  girls  with  lovers.  The  giris  that 
have  lovers  never  want  them.  They  say  they 


£hvee  ptcn  in  a  gjoat. 


79 


would  rather  be  without  them,  that  they  bother 
them,  and  why  don’t  they  go  and  make  love  to 
Miss  Smith  and  Miss  Brown,  who  are  plain  and 
elderly,  and  haven’t  got  any  lovers?  They  them¬ 
selves  don’t  want  lovers.  They  never  mean  to 
marry. 

It  does  not  do  to  dwell  on  these  things;  it 
makes  one  so  sad. 

There  was  a  boy  at  our  school ;  we  used  to  call 
him  Sanford  and  Merton.  His  real  name  was 
Stivvings.  He  was  the  most  extraordinary  lad  I 
ever  came  across.  I  believe  he  really  liked  study. 
He  used  to  get  into  awful  rows  for  sitting  up  in 
bed  and  reading  Greek;  and  as  for  French  irreg¬ 
ular  verbs,  there  was  simply  no  keeping  him  away 
from  them.  He  was  full  of  weird  and  unnatural 
notions  about  being  a  credit  to  his  parents  and  an 
honor  to  the  school;  and  he  yearned  to  win  prizes, 
and  grow  up  and  be  a  clever  man,  and  had  all 
those  sorts  of  weak-minded  ideas.  I  never  knew 
such  a  strange  creature,  yet  harmless,  mind  you, 
as  the  babe  unborn. 

Well,  that  boy  used  to  get  ill  about  twice  a 
week,  so  that  he  couldn’t  go  to  school.  There 
never  was  such  a  boy  to  get  ill  as  that  Sanford 
and  Merton.  If  there  was  any  known  disease 
going  within  ten  miles  of  him,  he  had  it,  and  had 
it  badly.  He  would  take  bronchitis  in  the  dog- 


80 


gtojeje  ptm  in  a  gjoat 


days,  and  have  hay-fever  at  Christmas.  After  a 
<dx  weeks’  period  of  drought,  he  would  be  stricken 
down  with  rheumatic  fever;  and  he  would  go 
out  in  a  November  fog  and  come  home  with  a 
sun-stroke. 

They  put  him  under  laughing  gas  one  year, 
poor  lad,  and  drew  all  his  teeth,  and  gave  him  a 
false  set,  because  he  suffered  so  terribly  with 
toothache;  and  then  it  turned  to  neuralgia  and 
ear-ache.  He  was  never  without  a  cold,  except 
once  for  nine  weeks  while  he  had  scarlet  fever; 
and  he  always  had  chilblains.  During  the  great 
cholera  scare  of  1871,  our  neighborhood  was 
singularly  free  from  it.  There  was  only  one  re¬ 
puted  case  in  the  whole  parish;  that  case  was 
young  Stivvings. 

He  had  to  stop  in  bed  when  he  was  ill,  and  eat 
chicken  and  custards  and  hot-house  grapes;  and 
he  would  lie  there  and  sob,  because  they  wouldn’t 
let  him  do  Latin  exercises,  and  took  his  German 
grammar  away  from  him. 

And  we  other  boys,  who  would  have  sacrificed 
ten  terms  of  our  school-life  for  the  sake  of  being 
ill  for  a  day,  and  had  no  desire  whatever  to  give 
our  parents  any  excuse  for  being  stuck-up  about 
us,  couldn’t  catch  so  much  as  a  stiff  neck.  We 
fooled  about  in  draughts,  and  it  did  us  good,  and 
freshened  us  up;  and  we  took  things  to  make  us 


Jglx^eje  gfltm  in  a  goat. 


81 


sick,  and  they  made  us  fat,  and  gave  us  an  ap¬ 
petite.  Nothing  we  could  think  of  seemed  to 
make  us  ill  until  the  holidays  began.  Then,  on 
the  breaking-up  day,  we  caught  colds,  and 
whooping  cough,  and  all  kinds  of  disorders, 
which  lasted  till  the  term  recommenced;  when,  in 
spite  of  everything  we  could  manoeuver  to  the 
contrary,  we  would  get  suddenly  well  again,  and 
be  better  than  ever. 

Such  is  life;  and  we  are  but 'as  grass  that  is 
cut  down,  and  put  into  the  oven  and  baked. 

To  go  back  to  the  carved-oak  question.  They 
must  have  had  very  fair  notions  of  the  artistic 
and  the  beautiful,  our  great-great-grandfathers. 
Why,  all  our  art  treasures  of  to-day  are  only  the 
dug-up  commonplaces  of  three  or  four  hundred 
years  ago.  I  wonder  if  there  is  real  intrinsic 
beauty  in  the  old  soup-plates,  beer-mugs,  and 
candle-snuffers  that  we  prize  so  now,  or  if  it  is 
only  the  halo  of  age  glowing  around  them  that 
gives  them  their  charms  in  our  eyes.  The  “old 
blue”  that  we  hang  about  our  walls  as  ornaments 
were  the  common  every-day  household  utensils 
of  a  few  centuries  ago;  and  the  pink  shepherds 
and  the  yellow  shepherdesses  that  we  hand  round 
now  for  all  our  friends  to  gush  over,  and  pretend 
they  understand,  were  the  unvalued  mantel  orna¬ 
ments  that  the  mother  of  the  eighteenth  century 


glxsce  f$t.eu  in  a  gxrat. 


would  have  given  the  baby  to  suck  when  he  cried 

Will  it  be  the  same  in  the  future?  Will  the 
prized  treasures  of  to-day  always  be  the  cheap 
trifles  of  the  day  before?  Will  rows  of  our  wril- 
low-pattern  dinner-plates  be  ranged  above  the 
chimney-pieces  of  the  great  in  the  years  2000  and 
odd?  Will  the  white  cups  with  the  gold  rim  and 
the  beautiful  gold  flower  inside  (species  un¬ 
known),  that  our  Sarah  Janes  now  break  in  sheer 
light-heartedness  of  spirit,  be  carefully  mended, 
and  stood  upon  a  bracket,  and  dusted  only  by 
the  lady  of  the  house? 

That  china  dog  that  ornaments  the  bedroom  of 
my  furnished  lodgings.  It  is  a  white  dog.  Its 
eyes  are  blue.  Its  nose  is  a  delicate  red,  with 
black  spots.  Its  head  is  painfully  erect,  and  its 
expression  is  amiability  carried  to  the  verge  of 
imbecility.  I  do  not  admire  it  myself.  Consid¬ 
ered  as  a  work  of  art,  I  may  say  it  irritates  me. 
Thoughtless  friends  jeer  at  it,  and  even  my  land¬ 
lady  herself  has  no  admiration  for  it,  and  excuses 
its  presence  by  the  circumstance  that  her  aunt 
gave  it  to  her. 

But  in  200  years’  time  it  is  more  than  probable  . 
that  that  dog  will  be  dug  up  from  somewhere  or 
other,  minus  its  legs,  and  with  its  tail  broken,  and 
will  be  sold  for  old  china,  and  put  in  a  glass  cab¬ 
inet.  And  people  will  pass  it  round  and  admire 


£x<k*  m  in  a  gloat. 


88 


ft.  They  v^ill  be  struck  by  the  wonderful  depth  of 
the  color  on  the  nose,  and  speculate  as  to  how 
beautiful  the  bit  of  the  tail  that  is  lost  no  doubt 
was. 

We,  in  this  age,  do  not  see  the  beauty  of  that 
dog.  We  are  too  familiar  with  it.  It  is  like  the 
sunset  and  the  stars;  we  are  not  awed  by  their 
loveliness  because  they  are  common  to  our  eyes. 
So  it  is  with  that  china  dog.  In  2288  people  will 
gush  over  it.  The  making  of  such  dogs  will  have 
become  a  lost  art.  Our  descendants  will  wonder 
low  we  did  it,  and  say  how  clever  we  were.  We 
hall  be  referred  to  lovingly  as  “those  grand  old 
artists  that  flourished  in  the  nineteenth  centurv, 
find  produced  those  china  dogs.” 

The  “sampler”  that  the  eldest  daughter  did  at 
ichool  will  be  spoken  of  as  “tapestry  of  the  Vic- 
orian  era,”  and  be  almost  priceless.  The  bitte¬ 
rn  d-white  mugs  of  the  present  day  roadside  inn 
will  be  hunted  up,  all  cracked  and  chipped,  and 
itold  for  their  weight  in  gold,  and  rich  people  will 
use  them  for  claret  cups;  and  travelers  from  Japan 
will  buy  up  all  the  “Presents  from  Ramsgate,” 
and  “Souvenirs  of  Margate,”  that  may  have  es¬ 
caped  destruction,  and  take  them  back  to  Jedo 
as  ancient  English  curios. 

A  i  this  point  Harris  threw  away  the  sculls,  got 


84 


ghvce  gUn  in  a  goat. 


up  and  left  his  seat,  and  sat  on  his  back,  and  stuck 
his  legs  in  the  air.  Montmorency  howled,  and 
turned  a  somersault,  and  the  top  hamper  jumped 
up,  and  all  the  things  came  out. 

I  was  somewhat  surprised,  but  I  did  not  lose 
my  temper.  I  said,  pleasantly  enough: 

“Hulloa!  what’s  that  for?” 

“What’s  that  for?  Why—” 

No,  on  second  thoughts,  I  will  not  repeat  what 
Harris  said.  I  may  have  been  to  blame,  I  admit 
it;  but  nothing  excuses  violence  of  language 
and  coarseness  of  expression,  especially  in  a  man 
who  has  been  carefully  brought  up,  as  I  know 
Harris  has  been.  I  was  thinking  of  other  things, 
and  forgot,  as  any  one  might  easily  understand, 
that  I  was  steering,  and  the  consequence  was  that 
we  had  got  mixed  up  a  good  deal  with  the  tow- 
path.  It  was  difficult  to  say,  for  the  moment, 
which  was  us  and  which  was  the  Middlesex  bank 
of  the  river;  but  we  found  out  after  a  while,  and 
separated  ourselves. 

Harris,  however,  said  he  had  done  enough  for 
a  bit,  and  proposed  that  I  should  take  a  turn ;  so, 
as  we  were  in,  I  got  out  and  took  the  tow-line, 
and  ran  the  boat  on  past  Hampton  Court.  What 
a  dear  old  wall  that  is  that  runs  along  by  the  river 
there!  I  never  pass  it  without  feeling  better  for 
the  sight  of  it.  Such  a  mellow,  bright,  sweet,  old 


gfoueje  m m  iix  a  iffxrat. 


85 


wall;  what  a  charming  picture  it  would  make, 
with  the  lichen  creeping  here,  and  the  moss  grow¬ 
ing  there,  a  shy  young  vine  peeping  over  the  top 
at  this  spot,  to  see  what  is  going  on  upon  the 
busy  river,  and  the  sober  old  ivy  clustering  a  little 
farther  down.  There  are  fifty  shades  and  tints 
and  hues  in  every  ten  yards  of  that  old  wall.  If 
I  could  only  draw,  and  knew  how  to  paint,  I 
could  make  a  lovely  sketch  of  that  old  wall,  I’m 
sure.  I’ve  often  thought  I  should  like  to  live  at 
Hampton  Court.  It  looks  so  peaceful  and  so 
quiet,  and  it  is  such  a  dear  old  place  to  ramble 
round  in  the  early  morning  before  many  people 
are  about. 

But  there,  I  don’t  suppose  I  should  really  care 
for  it  when  it  came  to  actual  practice.  It  would 
be  so  ghastly  dull  and  depressing  in  the  evening, 
when  your  lamp  cast  uncanny  shadows  on  the 
paneled  walls,  and  the  echo  of  distant  feet  rang 
through  the  cold  stone  corridors,  and  now  drew 
nearer,  and  now  died  away,  and  all  was  deathlike 
silence,  save  the  beating  of  one’s  own  heart. 

We  are  creatures  of  the  sun,  we  men  and  wo¬ 
men.  We  love  light  and  life.  That  is  why  we 
crowd  into  the  towns  and  cities,  and  the  country 
grows  mare  and  more  deserted  every  year.  In 
the  sunlight — in  the  daytime,  when  Nature  is 
alive  and  busy  all  round  us,  we  like  the  open  hill- 


86 


Qftxt je  ptm  in  a  gout. 


sides  and  the  deep  woods  well  enough;  but  in  the 
night  when  our  Mother  Earth  has  gone  to  sleep, 
and  left  us  waking,  oh !  the  world  seems  so  lone¬ 
some,  and  we  get  frightened,  like  children  in  a 
silent  house.  Then  we  sit  and  sob  and  long  for 
the  gas-lit  streets,  and  the  sound  of  human  voices, 
and  the  answering  throb  of  human  life.  We  feel 
so  helpless  and  so  little  in  the  great  stillness,  when 
the  dark  trees  rustle  in  the  night  wind.  There  are 
.so  many  ghosts  about,  and  their  silent  sighs  make 
us  feel  so  sad.  Let  us  gather  together  in  the 
great  cities,  and  light  huge  bonfires  of  a  million 
gas-jets,  and  shout  and  sing  together,  and  feel 
brave. 

Harris  asked  me  if  I’d  ever  been  in  the  maze 
at  Hampton  Court.  He  said  he  went  in  once  to 
show  somebody  else  the  .way.  He  had  studied 
it  up  in  a  map,  and  it  was  so  simple  that  it  seemed 
foolish — hardly  worth  the  twopence  charged 
for  admission.  Harris  said  he  thought  that  map 
must  have  been  got  up  as  a  practical  joke,  be¬ 
cause  it  wasn’t  a  bit  like  the  real  thing,  and  only 
misleading.  It  was  a  country  cousin  that  Harris 
took  in.  He  said: 

“We’ll  just  go  in  here,  so  that  you  can  say 
you’ve  been,  but  it’s  very  simple.  It’s  absurd  to 
call  it  a  maze.  You  keep  on  taking  the  first  turn- 


gfttteje  iit  a  |&oat. 


87 


ing  to  the  right.  We’ll  just  walk  round  for  ten 
minut’ s,  and  then  go  and  get  some  lunch.” 

The /  met  some  people  soon  after  they  had  got 
inside,  who  said  they  had  been  there  for  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour,  and  had  had  about  enough 
of  it.  Harris  told  them  they  could  follow  him  if 
they  liked;  he  was  just  going  in,  and  then  should 
turn  round  and  come  out  again.  They  said  it  was 
very  kind  of  him,  and  fell  behind  and  followed. 

They  picked  up  various  other  people  who 
wanted  to  get  it  over,  as  they  went  along,  until 
they  had  absorbed  all  the  persons  in  the  maze. 
People  who  had  given  up  all  hopes  of  ever  get¬ 
ting  either  in  )V  out,  or  of  ever  seeing  their  home 
and  friends  again,  plucked  up  courage  at  the 
sight  of  Harris  and  his  party,  and  joined  the  pro¬ 
cession,  blessing  him.  Harris  said  he  should 
judge  there  must  have  been  twenty  people  fol¬ 
lowing  him,  in  all;  and  one  woman  with  a  baby, 
who  had  been  there  all  the  morning,  insisted  on 
taking  his  arm,  for  fear  of  losing  him. 

Harris  kept  on  turning  to  the  right,  but  it 
seemed  a  long  way,  and  his  cousin  said  he  sup¬ 
posed  it  was  a  very  big  maze. 

“Oh,  one  of  the  largest  in  Europe,”  said  Har¬ 
ris. 

“Yes,  it  must  be,”  replied  the  cousin,  “because 
we’ve  walked  a  good  two  miles  already.” 


88 


gtocjc  g&jctx  in  u  gSuat. 


Harris  began  to  think  it  rather  strange  himself, 
but  he  held  on  until,  at  last,  they  passed  the  half 
of  a  penny  bun  on  the  ground  that  Harris’s  cousin 
swore  he  had  noticed  there  seven  minutes  ago. 
Harris  said:  “Oh,  impossible!”  but  the  woman 
with  the  baby  said,  “Not  at  all,”  as  she  herself 
had  taken  it  from  the  child,  and  thrown  it  down 
there,  just  before  she  met  Harris.  She  also  added 
that  she  wished  she  had  never  met  Harris,  and 
expressed  an  opinion  that  he  was  an  impostor. 
That  made  Harris  mad,  and  he  produced  his  map 
and  explained  his  theory. 

“The  map  may  be  all  right  enough,”  said  one 
of  the  party,  “if  you  know  whereabouts  in  it  we 
are  now.” 

Harris  didn’t  know,  and  suggested  that  the  best 
thing  to  do  would  be  to  go  back  to  the  entrance 
and  begin  again.  For  the  beginning  again  part 
of  it  there  was  not  much  enthusiasm ;  but  with  re¬ 
gard  to  the  advisability  of  going  back  to  the  en¬ 
trance  there  was  complete  unanimity,  and  so  they 
turned  and  trailed  after  Harris  again,  in  the  op¬ 
posite  direction.  About  ten  minutes  more  passed, 
and  then  they  found  themselves  in  the  center. 

Harris  thought  at  first  of  pretending  that  that 
was  what  he  had  been  aiming  at;  but  the  crowd 
looked  dangerous,  and  he  decided  to  treat  it  as  an 
accident. 


^hvtt  men  in  a  goat. 


89 


Anyhow,  they  had  got  something  to  start  from 
then.  They  did  know  where  they  were,  and  the 
map  was  once  more  consulted,  and  the  thing 
seemed  simpler  than  ever,  and  off  they  started  for 
the  third  time. 

And  three  minutes  later  they  were  hack  in  the 
center  again. 

After  that,  they  simply  couldn't  get  anywhere 
else.  Whatever  way  they  turned  brought  them 
back  to  the  middle.  It  became  so  regular  at 
length,  that  some  of  the  people  stopped  there,  and 
waited  for  the  others  to  take  a  walk  round,  and 
come  back  to  them.  Harris  drew  out  his  map 
again,  after  a  while,  but  the  sight  of  it  only  in¬ 
furiated  the  mob,  and  they  told  him  to  go  and  curl 
his  hair  with  it.  Harris  said,  that  he  couldn’t  help 
feeling  that,  to  a  certain  extent,  he  had  become 
unpopular. 

They  all  got  crazy  at  last,  and  sang  out  for  the 
keeper,  and  the  man  came  and  climbed  up  the 
ladder  outside,  and  shouted  out  directions  to  them. 
But  all  their  heads  were,  by  this  time,  in  such  a 
confused  whirl  that  they  were  incapable  of  grasp¬ 
ing  anything,  and  so  the  man  told  them  to  stop 
where  they  were,  and  he  would  come  to  them. 
They  huddled  together,  and  waited;  and  lie- 
climbed  down  and  came  in. 

He  was  a  young  keeper,  as  luck  would  have  it* 


VO 


ghvtjc  gtXen  in  a  23  oat. 


and  new  to  the  business;  and  when  he  got  in,  he 
couldn’t  find  them,  and  he  wandered  about,  try¬ 
ing  to  get  to  them,  and  then  he  got  lost.  They 
caught  sight  of  him  every  now  and  then,  rushing 
about  the  other  side  of  the  hedge,  and  he  would 
see  them,  and  rush  to  get  to  them,  and  they  woul 
wait  there  for  about  five  minutes,  and  then  he 
would  reappear  again  in  exactly  the  same  spot  and 
ask  them  where  they  had  been. 

They  had  to  wait  till  one  of  the  old  keepers 
came  back  from  his  dinner  before  they  got  out. 

Harris  said  he  thought  it  was  a  very  fine  maze, 
so  far  as  he  was  a  judge;  and  we  agreed  that  we 
would  try  to  get  George  to  go  into  it,  on  our  way 
back. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

It  was  while  passing  through  Moulsey  Lock 
that  Harris  told  me  about  hL  maze  experience. 
It  took  us  some  time  topass  through,  as  we  were 
the  only  boat,  and  it  is  a  big  lock.  I  don’t  think  I 
ever  remember  to  have  seen  Moulsey  Lock,  be¬ 
fore,  with  only  one  boat  in  it.  It  is,  I  suppose, 
Boulter’s  not  even  excepted,  the  busiest  lock  on 
the  river. 

I  have  stood  and  watched  it  sometimes,  when 


glivcc  ffcXeu  in  a  goat. 


91 


you  could  not  see  any  water  at  all,  but  only  a  bril 
liant  tangle  of  bright  blazers,  and  gay  caps,  and 
saucy  hats,  and  many-colored  parasols,  and  silken 
rugs,  and  cloaks,  and  streaming  ribbons,  and 
dainty  whites;  when  looking  down  into  the  lock 
from  the  quay,  you  might  fancy  it  was  a  huge  box 
into  which  flowers  of  every  hue  and  shade  had 
been  thrown  pell-mell,  and  lay  piled  up  in  a  rain  ¬ 
bow  heap,  that  covered  every  corner. 

On  a  fine  Sunday  it  presents  this  appearance 
nearly  all  day  long,  while,  up  the  stream,  and 
down  the  stream,  lie,  waiting  their  turn,  outside 
the  gates,  long  lines  of  still  more  boats ;  and  boats 
are  drawing  near  and  passing  away,  so  that  the 
sunny  river,  from  the  Palace  up  to  Hampton 
Church,  is  dotted  and  decked  with  yellow,  and 
blue,  and  orange,  and  white,  and  red,  and  pink. 
All  the  inhabitants  of  Hampton  and  Moulsey 
dress  themselves  up  in  boating  costume,  and 
come  and  mouch  round  the  lock  with  their  dogs, 
and  flirt,  and  smoke,  and  watch  the  boats;  and, 
altogether,  what  with  the  caps  and  jackets  of  the 
men,  the  pretty  colored  dresses  of  the  women, 
the  excited  dogs,  the  moving  boats,  the  wdiite 
sails,  the  pleasant  landscape,  and  the  sparkling 
w^ater,  it  is  one  of  the  gayest  sights  I  know  of  near 
this  dull  old  London  town. 

The  river  affords  a  good  opportunity  for  dress. 


92 


gtojcc  IPUt*  in  a  goat. 


For  once  in  a  way,  we  men  are  able  to  show  out 
taste  in  colors,  and  I  think  we  come  out  very  natty, 
if  you  ask  me.  I  always  like  a  little  red  in  my 
things — red  and  black.  You  know  my  hair  is  a 
sort  of  golden  brown,  rather  a  pretty  shade  Pve 
been  told,  and  a  dark  red  matches  it  beautifully; 
and  then  I  always  think  a  light-blue  necktie  goes 
so  well  with  it,  and  a  pair  of  those  Russian  leather 
shoes  and  a  red  silk  handkerchief  round  the  waist 
— a  handkerchief  looks  so  much  better  than  a  belt. 

Harris  always  keeps  to  shades  or  mixtures  of 
orange  or  yellow,  but  I  don’t  think  he  is  at  all 
wise  in  this.  His  complexion  is  too  dark  for 
yellows.  Yellows  don’t  suit  him:  there  can  be 
no  question  about  it.  I  want  him  to  take  to  blue 
as  a  background,  with  white  or  cream  for  relief; 
but,  there!  the  less  taste  a  person  has  in  dress, 
the  more  obstinate  he  always  seems  to  be.  It  is 
a  great  pity,  because  he  will  never  be  a  success  as 
it  is,  while  there  are  one  or  two  colors  in  which  he 
might  not  really  look  so  bad,  with  his  hat  on. 

George  has  bought  some  new  things  for  this 
trip,  and  I’m  rather  vexed  about  them.  The  blazer 
is  loud.  I  should  not  like  George  to  know  that  I 
thought  so,  but  there  really  is  no  other  word  for  it. 
He  brought  it  home  and  showed  it  to  us  on  Thurs¬ 
day  evening.  We  asked  him  what  color  he  called 
it.  and  he  said  he  didn’t  know.  He  didn’t  think 


93 


'ghxzz  DXcix  itx  a  ^jcrat* 

there  was  a  name  for  the  color.  The  man  had  told 
him  it  was  an  Oriental  design.  George  put  it  on, 
and  asked  us  what  we  thought  of  it.  Harris  said 
that,  as  an  object  to  hang  over  a  flower-bed  in 
early  spring  to  frighten  the  birds  away,  he  should 
respect  it;  but  that,  considered  as  an  article  of 
dress  for  any  human  being,  except  a  Margate 
nigger,  it  made  him  ill.  George  got  quite  huffy; 
but,  as  Harris  said,  if  he  didn’t  want  his  opinion, 
why  did  he  ask  for  it? 

What  troubles  Harris  and  myself,  with  regard 
to  it,  is  that  we  are  afraid  it  will  attract  attention  to 
the  boat. 

Girls,  also,  don’t  look  hHf  bad  in  a  boat,  if 
prettily  dressed.  Nothing  is  more  fetching,  to  my 
thinking,  than  a  tasteful  boating  costume.  But  a 
“boating  costume,”  it  would  be  as  well  if  all  ladies 
would  understand,  ought  to  be  a  costume  that  can 
be  worn  in  a  boat,  and  not  merely  under  a  glass 
case.  It  utterly  spoils  an  excursion  if  you  have 
folk  in  a  boat  who  are  thinking  all  the  time  a  good 
deal  more  of  their  dress  than  of  the  trip.  It  was 
my  misfortune  once  to  go  for  a  water  picnic  with 
two  ladies  of  this  kind.  We  did  have  a  lively 
time. 

They  were  both  beautifully  got  up— all  lace  and 
silky  stuff,  and  flowers,  and  ribbons,  and  dainty 
shoes,  and  light  gloves.  But  they  were  dressed 


94 


Qhxzc  pten  in  a  ^Voat. 


for  a  photographic  studio,  not  for  a  river  picnic, 
They  were  the  “boating  costumes”  of  a  French 
fashion  plate.  It  was  ridiculous,  fooling  about 
in  them  anywhere  near  real  earth,  air,  and  water. 

The  first  thing  was  that  they  thought  the  boat 
was  not  clean.  We  dusted  all  the  seats  for  them, 
and  then  assured  them  that  it  was,  but  they  didn't 
believe  us.  One  of  them  rubbed  the  cushion  with 
the  forefinger  of  her  glove,  and  showed  the  result 
to  the  other,  and  they  both  sighed,  and  sat  down, 
with  the  air  of  early  Christian  martyrs  trying  to 
make  themselves  comfortable  up  against  the 
stake.  You  are  liable  to  occasionally  splash  a 
little  when  sculling,  and  it  appeared  that  a  drop  of 
water  ruined  those  costumes.  The  mark  never 
came  out,  and  a  stain  was  left  on  the  dress  for¬ 
ever. 

I  was  stroke.  I  did  my  best.  I  feathered  some 
two  feet  high,  and  I  paused  at  the  end  of  each 
stroke  to  let  the  blades  drip  before  returning  them, 
and  I  picked  out  a  smooth  bit  of  water  to  drop 
them  into  again  each  time.  (Bow  said,  after  a 
while,  that  he  did  not  feel  himself  a  sufficiently 
accomplished  oarsman  to  pull  with  me,  but  that 
he  would  sit  still,  if  I  would  allow  him,  and  study 
my  stroke.  He  said  it  interested  him.)  But,  not¬ 
withstanding  all  this,  and  try  as  I  would,  I  could 


JgTxvcc  pXcu  in  a  goat. 


05 


aot  help  an  occasional  flicker  of  water  from  going 
over  those  dresses. 

The  girls  did  not  complain,  but  they  huddled 
up  close  together,  and  set  their  lips  firm,  and 
every  time  a  drop  touched  them  they  visibly 
shrank  and  shuddered.  It  was  a  noble  sight  to 
see  them  suffering  thus  in  silence,  but  it  unnerved 
me  altogether.  I  am  too  sensitive.  I  got  wild 
and  fitful  in  my  rowing,  and  splashed  more  and 
more,  the  harder  I  tried  not  to. 

I  gave  it  up  at  last ;  I  said  I’d  row  bow.  Bow 
thought  the  arrangement  would  be  better  too, 
and  we  changed  places.  The  ladies  gave  an  in¬ 
voluntary  sigh  of  relief  when  they  saw  me  go,  and 
quite  brightened  up  for  a  moment.  Poor  girls! 
they  had  better  have  put  up  with  me.  The  man 
they  had  got  now  was  a  jolly,  light-hearted,  thick¬ 
headed  sort  of  a  chap,  with  about  as  much  sensi¬ 
tiveness  in  him  as  there  might  be  in  a  Newfound¬ 
land  puppy.  You  might  look  daggers  at  him  for 
an  hour  and  he  would  not  notice  it,  and  it  would 
not  trouble  him  if  he  did.  He  set  a  good,  rollick¬ 
ing,  dashing  stroke  that  sent  the  spray  playing  all 
over  the  boat  like  a  fountain,  and  made  the  whole 
crowd  sit  up  straight  in  no  time.  When  he  spread 
more  than  a  pint  of  water  over  one  of  those 
dresses,  he  would  give  a  pleasant  little  laugh,  and 
say: 


96 


$1 m*  gcXjcw  in  a  |&crat 


“I  beg  your  pardon,  I’m  sure;”  and  offer  them 
his  handkerchief  to  wipe  it  off  with. 

“Oh,  it’s  of  no  consequence,”  the  poor  girls 
would  murmur  in  reply,  and  covertly  draw  rugs 
and  coats  over  themselves,  and  try  to  protect 
themselves  with  their  lace  parasols. 

At  lunch  they  had  a  very  bad  time  of  it.  People 
wanted  them  to  sit  on  the  grass,  and  the  grass 
was  dusty ;  and  the  tree-trunks,  against  which  they 
were  invited  to  lean,  did  not  appear  to  have  been 
brushed  for  weeks;  so  they  spread  their  handker¬ 
chiefs  on  the  ground  and  sat  on  those,  bolt  up¬ 
right.  Somebody,  in  walking  about  with  a  plate 
of  beefsteak  pie,  tripped  over  a  root,  and  sent  the 
pie  flying.  None  of  it  went  over  them,  fortunate¬ 
ly,  but  the  accident  suggested  a  fresh  danger  to 
them,  and  agitated  them;4and,  whenever  anybody 
moved  about,  after  that,  with  anything  in  his  hand 
that  could  fall  and  make  a  mess,  they  watched 
that  person  with  growing  anxiety  until  he  sat 
down  again. 

“Now  then,  you  girls,”  said  our  friend  Bow  to 
them  cheerily,  after  it  was  all  over,  “come  along; 
you’ve  got  to  wash  up !” 

They  didn’t  understand  him  at  first.  When 
they  grasped  the  idea,  they  said  they  feared  they 
did  not  know  how  to  wash  up. 

“Oh,  I’ll  soon  show  you,”  he  cried;  “it's  rare 


fpUn  in  a  goat. 


97 


fun!  You  lie  down  on  your — I  mean  you  lean 
over  the  bank,  you  know,  and  sloush  the  things 
about  in  the  water.” 

The  eldest  sister' said  that  she  was  afraid  that 
they  hadn’t  got  on  dresses  suited  to  the  work. 

“Oh,  they’ll  be  all  right,”  said  he  light- 
heartedly;  “tuck  ’em  up.” 

And  he  made  them  do  it,  too.  He  told  them 
that  that  sort  of  thing  was  half  the  fun  of  a  picnic. 
They  said  it  was  very  interesting. 

Now  I  come  to  think  it  over,  was  that  young 
man  as  dense-headed  as  we  thought?  or  was  he — 
no,  impossible!  there  was  such  a  simple,  child¬ 
like  expression  about  him ! 

Harris  wanted  to  get  out  at  Hampton  Church, 
to  go  and  see  Mrs.  Thomas’  tomb. 

“Who  is  Mrs.  Thomas?”  I  asked. 

“How  should  I  know?”  replied  Harris.  “She’s 
a  lady  that’s  got  a  funny  tomb,  and  I  want  to 
see  it.” 

I  objected.  I  don’t  know  whether  it  is  that  I 
am  built  wrong,  but  I  never  did  seem  to  hanker 
after  tombstones  myself.  I  know  that  the  proper 
•  thing  to  do,  when  you  get  to  a  village  or  town,  is 
to  rush  off  to  the  churchyard,  and  enjoy  the 
graves;  but  it  is  a  recreation  that  I  always  den}r 
myself.  I  tpke  no  interest  in  creeoing  round  dim 


08 


glxvjcje  in  a  goat. 


and  chilly  churches  behind  wheezy  old  men,  and 
reading  epithets.  Not  even  the  sight  of  a  bit  of 
cracked  brass  let  into  a  stone  affords  me  what  I 
call  real  happiness. 

I  shock  respectable  sextons  by  the  imperturba¬ 
bility  I  am  able  to  assume  before  exciting  inscrip¬ 
tions,  and  by  my  lack  of  enthusiasm  for  the  local 
family  history,  while  my  ill-concealed  anxiety  to 
get  outside  wounds  their  feelings. 

One  golden  morning  of  a  sunny  day,  I  leaned 
against ‘the  low  stone  wall  that  guarded  a  little  vil¬ 
lage  church,  and  I  smoked,  and  drank  in  deep, 
calm  gladness  from  the  sweet,  restful  scene — the 
gray  old  church  with  its  clustering  ivy  and  its 
quaint  carved  wooden  porch,  the  white  lane  wind¬ 
ing  down  the  hill  between  tall  rows  of  elms,  the 
thatched-roof  cottages  peeping  above  their  trim- 
kept  hedges,  the  silver  river  in  the  hollow,  the 
wooded  hills  beyond! 

It  was  a  lovely  landscape.  It  was  idyllic,  poet¬ 
ical,  and  it  inspired  me.  I  felt  good  and  noble. 
I  felt  I  didn’t  want  to  be  sinful  and  wicked  any 
more.  I  would  come  and  live  here,  and  never  do 
any  more  wrong,  and  lead  a  blameless,  beautiful 
life,  and  have  silver  hair  when  I  got  old,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing. 

In  that  moment  1  forgave  all  my  friends  and 
relations  for  their  wickedness  and  cussedness, 


Qlxxcc  fputx  In  a  goat. 


99 


and  I  blessed  them.  They  did  not  know  that  I 
blessed  them.  They  went  their  abandoned  way 
all  unconscious  of  what  I,  far  away  in  that  peace¬ 
ful  village,  was  doing  for  them ;  but  I  did  it,  and  I 
wished  that  I  could  let  them  know  that  I  had  done 
it,  because  I  wanted  to  make  them  happy.  I  was 
going  on  thinking  away  all  these  grand,  tender 
thoughts,  when  my  reverie  was  broken  in  upon 
by  a  shrill  piping  voice  crying  out: 

“All  right,  sur,  I’m  a-coming,  I’m  a-coming. 
It’s  all  right,  sur;  don’t  you  be  in  a  hurry.” 

I  looked  up,  and  saw  an  old  bald-headed  man 
hobbling  across  the  churchyard  toward  me  carry¬ 
ing  a  huge  bunch  of  keys  in  his  hand  that  shook 
and  jingled  at  every  step. 

I  motioned  him  away  with  silent  dignity,  but 
he  still  advanced,  screeching  out  the  while: 

“I’m  a-coming,  sur,  I’m  a-coming.  I’m  a  little 
lame.  I  ain’t  as  spry  as  I  used  to  be.  This  way, 
sur.” 

“Go  away,  you  miserable  old  man,”  I  said. 

“I’ve  come  as  soon  as  I  could,  sur,”  he  replied. 
“My  missis  never  see  you  till  just  this  minute. 
You  follow  me,  sur.” 

“Go  away,”  I  repeated;  “leave  me  before  1  get 
over  the  wall  and  slay  you.” 

He  seemed  surprised. 

“Don't  you  want  to  see  the  tombs?”  he  said- 


100 


gftvjcje  pUn  in  a  gjoal. 


“No,”  I  answered,  “I  don’t.  I  want  to  stop 
here,  leaning  up  against  this  gritty  old  wall.  Go 
away,  and  don’t  disturb  me.  I  am  chock  full  of 
beautiful  and  noble  thoughts,  and  I  want  to  stop 
like  it,  because  it  feels  nice  and  good.  Don’t  you 
come  fooling  about,  making  me  mad,  chivying 
away  all  my  better  feelings  with  this  silly  tomb¬ 
stone  nonsense  of  yours.  Go  away,  and  get  some¬ 
body  to  bury  you  cheap,  and  I’ll  pay  half  the 
expense.’’ 

He  was  bewildered  for  a  moment.  He  rubbed 
his  eyes,  and  looked  hard  at  me.  I  seemed  hu¬ 
man  enough  on  the  outside:  he  couldn’t  make  it 
out. 

He  said: 

“Yuise  a  stranger  in  these  parts?  You  don’t 
live  here?” 

“No,”  I  said,  “I  don’t.  You  wouldn’t  if  I  did.” 

“Well,  then,”  he  said,  “you  want  to  see  the 
tombs — graves — folks  been  buried,  you  know — 
coffins!” 

“You  are  an  untruther,”  I  replied,  getting 
roused;  “I  do  not  want  to  see  tombs — not  your 
tombs.  Why  should  I?  We  have  graves  of  our 
own,  our  family  has.  Why,  my  uncle  Podger 
has  a  tomb  in  Kensal  Green  Cemetery  that  is  the 
pride  of  all  that  country-side;  and  my  grand¬ 
father’s  vault  at  Bow  is  capable  of  accommodating 


glmje  got m  in  a  l»joal. 


101 


eight  visitors,  while  my  great-aunt  Susan  has  a 
brick  grave  in  Finchley  Churchyard,  with  a  head¬ 
stone  with  a  coffee-pot  sort  of  thing  in  bas-relief 
upon  it,  and  a  six-inch  best  white  stone  coping  all 
the  way  round,  that  cost  pounds.  When  I  want 
graves,  it  is  to  those  places  that  I  go  and  revel. 
I  do  not  want  other  folks’.  When  you  yourself 
are  buried,  I  will  come  and  see  yours.  That  is  all 
I  can  do  for  you.” 

He  burst  into  tears.  He  said  that  one  of  the 
tombs  had  a  bit  of  stone  upon  the  top  of  it  that 
had  been  said  by  some  one  to  be  probably  part  of 
the  remains  of  a  figure  of  a  man,  and  that  another 
had  some  words  carved  upon  it  that  nobody  had 
ever  been  able  to  decipher. 

I  still  remained  obdurate, _  and  in  broken¬ 
hearted  tones  he  said: 

“Well,  won’t  you  come  and  see  the  memorial 
window?” 

I  would  not  even  see  that,  so  he  fired  his  last 
shot  He  drew  near,  and  whispered  hoarsely: 

“Fve  got  a  couple  of  skulls  down  in  the  c  rypt,’’ 
he  said;  “come  and  see  those.  Oh,  do  come  and 
see  the  skulls!  You  are  a  young  man  out  for  a 
holiday,  and  you  want  to  enjoy  yoi  rself.  Come 
and  see  the  skulls!” 

Then  I  turned  and  fled,  and  as  I  *ped  J  heard 
him  calling  to  me: 


102 


pUtx  in  a  goat. 


“Oh,  come  and  see  the  skulls;  come  back  and 
see  the  skulls !” 

Harris,  however,  revels  in  tombs,  and  graves, 
and  epitaphs,  and  monumental  inscriptions,  and 
the  thought  of  not  seeing  Mrs.  Thomas’  grave 
made  him  crazy.  He  said  he  had  looked  forward 
to  seeing  Mrs.  Thomas’  grave  from  the  first  mo¬ 
ment  that  the  trip  was  proposed — said  he  wouldn’t 
have  joined  if  it  hadn’t  been  for  the  idea  of  seeing 
Mrs.  Thomas’  tomb. 

I  reminded  him  of  George,  and  how  we  had  to 
get  the  boat  up  to  Shepperton  by  five  o’clock  to 
meet  him,  and  then  he  went  for  George.  Why 
was  George  to  fool  about  all  day,  and  leave  us  to 
lug  this  lumbering  old  top-heavy  barge  up  and 
down  the  river  by  ourselves  to  meet  him?  Why 
couldn’t  George  come  and  do  some  work?  Why 
couldn’t  he  have  got  the  day  off,  and  come  down 
with  us?  Bank  be  bio  wed  t  What  good  was  he 
f.t  the  bank?” 

“I  never  see  him  doing  any  work  there,”  con¬ 
tinued  Harris,  “whenever  I  go  in.  He  sits  behind 
a  bit  of  glass  all  day,  trying  to  look  as  if  he  were 
doing  something.  What’s  the  good  of  a  man 
behind  a  bit  of  glass?  I  have  to  work  for  my 
living.  Why  can’t  he  work?  What  use  is  he 
there  and  what’s  the  good  of  their  banks?  They 
take  your  money,  and  then,  when  you  draw  a 


glxvjec  g&jcn  in  <t  ^oat. 


108 


check,  they  send  it  back  smeared  all  over  with 
‘No  effects,’  ‘Refer  to  drawer.'  What’s  the  good 
of  that?  That’s  the  sort  of  trick  they  served  me 
twice  last  week.  I’m  not  going  to  stand  it  much 
longer.  I  shall  withdraw  my  account.  If  he  was 
here,  we  could  go  and  see  that  tomb.  I  don’t 
believe  he’s  at  the  bank  at  all.  He’s  lurking  about 
somewhere,  that’s  what  he’s  doing,  leaving  us  to 
do  all  the  work.  I’m  going  to  get  out  and  have 
a  drink.” 

I  pointed  out  to  him  that  we  were  miles  away 
from  a  pub.;  and  then  he  went  on  about  the  river, 
and  what  was  the  good  of  the  river,  and  was 
every  one  who  came  on  the  river  to  die  of  thirst? 

It  is  always  best  to  let  Harris  have  his  head 
when  he  gets  like  this.  Then  be  pumps  himself 
out,  and  is  quiet  afterward. 

I  reminded  him  that  there  was  concentrated 
lemonade  in  the  hamper,  and  a  gHilorr  jar  of  water 
in  the  nose  of  the  boat,  and  that  the  two  only 
wanted  mixing  to  make  a  coo1  and  refreshing 
beverage. 

Then  he  flew  off  about  lemonade,  and  “such 
like  Sunday-school  slops,”  as  he  termed  them, 
ginger  beer,  raspberry  syrup,  etc.,  etc.  He  said 
they  ail  produced  dyspepsia,  and  ruined  body  and 
soul  alike,  and  were  the  cause  of  half  the  crime 
in  England. 


104 


ghrce  fftXjctt  in  a  ^oat. 


He  said  he  must  drink  something,  however, 
and  climbed  upon  the  seat,  and  leaned  over  to 
get  the  bottle.  It  was  right  at  the  bottom  of  the 
hamper,  and  seemed  difficult  to  find,  and  he  had 
to  lean  over  further  and  further,  and,  in  trying  to 
steer  at  the  same  time,  from  a  topsy-turvy  point  of 
view,  he  pulled  the  wrong  line,  and  sent  the  boat 
into  the  bank,  and  the  shock  upset  him,  and  he 
dived  down  right  into  the  hamper,  and  stood  there 
on  his  head,  holding  on  to  the  sides  of  the  boat  like 
grim  death,  his  legs  sticking  up  into  the  air.  He 
dared  not  move  for  fear  of  going  over,  and  had  to 
stay  there  till  I  could  get  hold  of  his  legs,  and 
haul  him  back,  and  that  made  him  madder  than 
ever. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

» 

We  stopped  under  the  willows  by  Kempton 
Park,  and  lunched.  It  is  a  pretty  little  spot  there ; 
a  pleasant  grass  plateau,  running  along  by  the 
water’s  edge,  and  overhung  with  willows.  We 
had  just  commenced  the  third  course — the  bread 
and  jam — when  a  gentleman  in  shirt-sleeves  and 
a  short  pipe  came  along,  and  wanted  to  know  if 
we  knew  that  we  were  trespassing.  We  said  we 
hadn’t  given  the  matter  sufficient  consideration 


glivjce  @Ij m  in  a  goat. 


m 

as  yet  to  enable  us  to  arrive  at  a  definite  conclu¬ 
sion  on  that  point,  but  that,  if  he  assured  us  on  his 
word  as  a  gentleman  that  we  were  trespassing, 
we  would,  without  further  hesitation,  believe  it. 

He  gave  us  the  required  assurance,  and  we 
thanked  him,  but  he  still  hung  about,  and  seemed  * 
to  be  dissatisfied,  so  we  asked  him  if  there  was 
anything  further  that  we  could  do  for  him;  and 
Harris,  who  is  of  a  chummy  disposition,  offered 
him  a  bit  of  bread  and  jam. 

I  fancy  he  must  have  belonged  to  some  society 
sworn  to  abstain  from  bread  and  jam;  for  he  de¬ 
clined  it  quite  gruffly,  as  if  he  were  vexed  at  being 
tempted  with  it,  and  he  added  that  it  was  his  duty 
to  turn  us  off. 

Harris  said  that  if  it  was  a  duty  it  ought  to  be 
done,  and  asked  the  man  what  was  his  idea  with 
regard4  to  the  best  means  for  accomplishing  it. 
Harris  is  what  you  would  call  a  well-made  man  of 
about  number  one  size,  and  looks  hard  and  bony, 
and  the  man  measured  him  up  and  down,  and 
said  he  would  go  and  consult  his  master,  and 
then  come  back  and  chuck  us  both  into  the 
river. 

Of  course,  we  never  saw  him  any  more,  and,  of 
course,  all  he  really  wanted  was  a  shilling.  There 
are  a  certain  number  of  riverside  roughs  who 
make  quTe  an  income,  during  the  summer,  by 


106 


ghvee  pXxn  in  a  gcrai. 


slouching  about  the  banks  and  blackmailing 
weak-minded  noodles  in  this  way.  They  repre¬ 
sent  themselves  as  sent  by  the  proprietor.  The 
proper  course  to  pursue  is  to  offer  your  name  and 
address,  and  leave  the  owner,  if  he  really  has  any¬ 
thing  to  do  with  the  matter,  to  summon  you,  and 
prove  what  damage  you  have  done  to  his  land  by 
sitting  down  on  a  bit  of  it.  But  the  majority  of 
people  are  so  intensely  lazy  and  timid,  that  they 
prefer  to  encourage  the  imposition  by  giving  in  to 
it  rather  than  put  an  end  to  it  by  the  exertion  of  a 
little  firmness.  Where  it  is  really  the  owners  that 
are  to  blame,  they  ought  to  be  shown  up.  The 
selfishness  of  the  riparian  proprietor  grows  with 
every  year.  If  these  men  had  their  way  they  would 
close  the  river  Thames  altogether.  They  actually 
do  this  along  the  minor  tributary  streams  and  in 
the  backwaters.  They  drive  posts  into  the  bed 
of  the  stream,  and  draw  chains  across  from  bank 
to  bank,  and  nail  huge  notice-boards  on  every 
tree.  The  sight  of  these  notice-boards  rouses 
every  evil  instinct  in  my  nature.  I  feel  I  want  to 
tear  each  one  down,  and  hammer  it  over  the  head 
of  the  man  who  put  it  up,  until  I  have  killed  him, 
and  then  I  would  bury  him  and  put  the  board  up 
over  the  grave  as  a  tombstone. 

I  mentioned  these  feelings  of  mine  to  Harris, 
and  he  said  he  had  them  worse  than  that.  He  said 


gtoje*  fpbm  in  a  £Soat. 


107 


he  had  not  only  felt  he  wanted  to  kill  the  man 
who  caused  the  board  to  be  put  up,  but  that  he 
would  like  to  slaughter  the  whole  of  his  family 
and  all  his  friends  and  relations,  and  then  burn 
down  his  house.  This  seemed  to  me  to  be  going 
too  far,  and  I  said  so  to  Harris ;  but  he  answered . 

“Not  a  bit  of  it.  Serve  ’em  all  jolly  well  right, 
and  I’d  go  and  sing  comic  songs  on  the  ruins.” 

I  was  vexed  to  hear  Harris  go  on  in  this  blood¬ 
thirsty  strain.  We  never  ought  to  allow  our  in¬ 
stincts  of  justice  to  degenerate  into  mere  vindic¬ 
tiveness.  It  was  a  long  while  before  I  could  get 
Harris  to  take  a  more  Christian  view  of  the  sub¬ 
ject,  but  I  succeeded  at  last,  and  he  promised  me 
that  he  would  spare  the  friends  and  relations  at 
all  events,  and  would  not  sing  comic  songs  on  the 
ruins. 

You  have  never  heard  Harris  sing  a  comic 
song,  or  you  would  understand  the  service  I  had 
rendered  to  mankind.  It  is  one  of  Harris’  fixed 
ideas  that  he  can  sing  a  comic  song;  the  fixed 
idea,  on  the  contrary,  among  those  of  Harris’ 
friends  who  have  heard  him  try,  is  that  he  can’t, 
and  never  will  be  able  to,  and  that  he  ought  not  to 
be  allowed  to  try. 

When  Harris  is  at  a  party  and  is  asked  to  sing, 
ho  replies:  “Well,  I  can  only  sing  a  comic  song, 

you  know;*  and  he  says  it  in  a  tone  that  implies 


1U8 


r£hxzz  ptjcn  in  n  §ont. 


that  his  singing  of  that,  however,  is  a  thing  that 
you  ought  to  hear  once,  and  then  die. 

“Oh,  that  is  nice,”  says  the  hostess.  “Do  sing 
one,  Mr.  Harris;”  and  Harris  gets  up  and  makes 
for  the  piano  with  the  beaming  cheeriness  of  a 
generous-minded  man  who  is  just  about  to  give 
somebody  something. 

“Now,  silence,  please,  everybody,”  says  the 
hostess,  turning  round;  “Mr.  Harris  is  going  to 
sing  a  comic  song!” 

“Oh,  how  jolly !”  they  murmur;  and  they  hurry 
in  from  the  conservatory,  and  come  up  from  the 
stairs,  and  go  and  fetch  each  other  from  all  over 
the  house,  and  crowd  into  the  drawing-room,  and 
sit  round,  all  smirking  in  anticipation. 

Then  Harris  begins. 

Well,  you  don’t  look  for  much  of  a  voice  in  a 
comic  song.  You  don’t  expect  correct  phrasing 
or  vocalization.  You  don’t  mind  if  a  man  does 
find  out,  when  in  the  middle  of  a  note,  that  he  is 
too  high,  and  comes  down  with  a  jerk.  You 
don’t  bother  about  time.  You  don^t  mind  a  man 
being  two  bars  in  front  of  the  accompaniment, 
and  easing  up  in  the  middle  of  the  line  to  argue  it 
out  with  the  pianist,  and  then  starting  the  verse 
afresh.  But  you  do  expect  the  words. 

You  don’t  expect  a  man  to  never  remember 
more  than  the  first  three  lines  of  the  first  verse. 


glxvce  gtXcit  in  a  gloat. 


106 


and  to  keep  on  repeating  these  until  it  is  time 
to  begin  the  chorus.  You  don’t  expect  a  man  to 
break  off  in  the  middle  of  a  line,  and  snigger,  and 
say,  it’s  very  funny,  but  he’s  blest  if  he  can  think 
of  the  rest  of  it,  and  then  try  and  make  it  up 
for  himself,  and,  afterward,  suddenly  recollect  it, 
when  he  lias  got  to  an  entirely  different  part  of 
the  song,  and  break  off,  without  a  word  of  warn-  * 
ing,  to  go  back  and  let  you  have  it  then  and  there. 
You  don’t — well,  I  will  just  give  you  an  idea  of 
Harris’s  comic  singing,  and  then  you  can  judge 
of  it  for  yourself. 

Harris  (standing  up  in  front  of  piano  and  ad¬ 
dressing  the  expectant  mob):  “I’m  afraid  it’s  a 
very  old  thing,  you  know.  I  expect  you  all  know 
it,  you  know.  But  it’s  the  only  thing  I  know.  It's 
the  Judge’s  song  out  of  Pinafore — no,  I  don’t 
mean  Pinafore — 1  mean — you  know  what  I  mean 
— the  other  thing,  you  know.  You  must  all  join 
in  the  chorus,  you  know.” 

[Murmurs  of  delight  and  anxiety  to  join  in  the  chorus. 
Brilliant  performance  of  prelude  to  the  Judge’s  song 
in  “Trial  by  Jury”  by  nervous  pianist.  Moment  ar¬ 
rives  for  Harris  to  join  in.  Harris  takes  no  notice 
of  it.  Nervous  pianist  commences  prelude  over 
again,  and  Harris,  commencing  singing  at  the  same 
time,  dashes  off  the  first  two  lines  of  the  First  Lord’s 
song  out  of  “Pinafore.”  Nervous  pianist  tries  to  push 
on  with  prelude,  gives  it  up,  and  tries  to  follow 


110 


xvzz  JJXcn  in  a  gnat, 


Harris  with  accompaniment  to  Judge’s  song  out  of 
“Trial  by  Jury,”  finds  that  doesn’t  answer,  and  tries 
to  recollect  what  Le  is  doing,  and  where  he  is,  feels 
his  mind  giving  way,  and  stops  short. 

Harris  (with  kindly  encouragement):  “It's  ah 
right.  You’re  doing  very  well,  indeed — go  on/' 
Nervous  Pianist:  “I’m  afraid  there’s  a  mistake 
somewhere.  What  are  you  singing?” 

Harris  (promptly):  “Why,  the  Judge's  song 
out  of  Trial  by  Jury.  Don’t  you  know  it?” 

Some  friend  of  Harris’  (from  the  back  of  the 
room):  “No  you’re  not,  you  chucklehead,  you’re 
singing  the  Admiral’s  song  from  Pinafore.” 

[Long  argument  between  Harris  and  Harris’  friend  as 
to  what  Harris  is  really  singing.  Friend  finally  sug¬ 
gests  that  it  doesn’t  matter  what  Harris  is  singing 
so  long  as  Harris  gets  on  and  sings  it,  and  Harris, 
with  an  evident  sense  of  injustice  rankling  inside 
him,  requests  pianist  to  begin  again.  Pianist,  there¬ 
upon,  starts  prelude  to  the  Admiral’s  song,  and  Har¬ 
ris,  seizing  what  he  considers  to  be  a  favorable  open¬ 
ing  in  the  music,  begins: 

Harris: 

“  ‘When  I  was  young  and  called  to  the  Bar.’  ” 

[General  roar  of  laughter,  taken  by  Harris  as  a  com¬ 
pliment.  Pianist,  thinking  of  his  wife  and  family, 
gives  up  the  unequal  contest  and  retires;  hte  place 
being  taken  by  a  stronger-nerved  man. 


Qftxt z  ptm  in  a  ISoat 


.il 

The  New  Pianist  (cheerily):  “Now,  then,  old 
man,  you  start  off,  and  I’ll  follow.  We  won’t 
bother  about  any  prelude.” 

Harris  (upon  whom  the  explanation  of  matters 
has  slowly  dawned — laughing):  “By  Jove!  I  beg 
your  pardon.  Of  course — I’ve  been  mixing  up 
the  two  songs.  It  was  Jenkins  confused  me,  you 
know.  Now  then.” 

[Singing;  his  voice  appearing  to  come  from  the  cellar, 
and  suggesting  the  first  low  warnings  of  an  ap¬ 
proaching  earthquake. 

“  ‘When  I  was  young  I  served  a  term 
As  office-boy  to  an  attorney’s  firm.’  ” 

(Aside  to  pianist):  “It  is  too  low,  old  man;  we’ll 
have  that  over  again,  if  you  don’t  mind.” 

[Sings  first  two  lines  over  again,  in  a  high  falsetto 
this  time.  Great  surprise  on  the  part  of  the  audi¬ 
ence.  Nervous  old  lady  near  the  fire  begins  to  cry, 
and  has  to  be  led  out. 

Harris  (continuing) : 

“  *1  swept  the  windows  and  I  swept  the  door. 
And  I—’ 

No — no,  I  cleaned  the  windows  of  the  big  front 
door.  And  I  polished  up  the  floor — no,  dash  it— 


m 


glitjeje  pCjen  in  a  gjjcrat. 


I  beg  your  pardon — funny  thing,  I  can’t  think  of 
that  line.  And  I — and  I — oh,  well,  we’ll  get  on  to 
the  chorus,  and  chance  it  (sings) : 

“  ‘And  I  diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-de, 
Till  now  I  am  ruler  of  the  Queen’s  navee.’  ” 

Now,  then,  chorus — it’s  the  last  two  lines  repeated 
you  know.” 

General  Chorus: 

“  *And  he  diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle- 
dee’d, 

Till  now  he  is  the  ruler  of  the  Queen’s  navee.*  ** 

And  Harris  never  sees  what  an  ass  he  is  making 
of  himself,  and  how  he  is  annoying  a  lot  of  people 
who  never  did  him  any  harm.  He  honestly 
imagines  that  he  has  given  them  a  treat,  and  says 
he  will  sing  another  comic  song  after  supper. 

Speaking  of  comic  songs  and  parties  reminds 
me  of  a  rather  curious  incident  at  which  I  once 
assisted;  which,  as  it  throws  much  light  upon  the 
inner  mental  working  of  human  nature  in  gen¬ 
eral,  ought,  I  think,  to  be  recorded  in  these 
pages. 

We  were  a  fashionable  and  highly  cultured 
party.  We  had  on  our  best  clothes,  and  we  talked 
pretty,  and  were  very  happy — all  except  two 


ghvce  pXcn  in  a  ^out. 


113 


young  fellows,  students,  just  returned  from  Ger¬ 
many,  commonplace  young  men,  who  seemed 
restless  and  uncomfortable,  as  if  they  found  the 
proceedings  slowr.  The  truth  was,  we  were  too 
clever  for  them.  Our  brilliant  but  polished  con¬ 
versation,  and  our  high-class  tastes,  were  oeyond 
them.  They  were  out  of  place  among  us.  They 
never  ought  to  have  been  there  at  all.  Everybody 
agreed  upon  that  later  on. 

We  played  morceaux  from  the  old  German 
masters.  We  discussed  philosophy  and  ethics.  We 
flirted  with  graceful  dignity.  We  were  even 
humorous — in  a  high-class  way. 

Somebody  recited  *a  French  poem  after  supper, 
and  we  said  it  was  beautiful;  and  then  a  lady  sang 
a  sentimental  ballad  in  Spanish  and  it  made  one 
or  two  of  us  weep — it  was  so  pathetic. 

And  then  those  two  young  men  got  up,  and 
asked  us  if  we  had  ever  heard  Herr  Slossenn 
„  Boschen  (who  had  just  arrived,  and  was  then 
down  in  the  supper-room)  sing  his  great  German 
comic  song. 

None  of  us  had  heard  it,  that  we  could  re¬ 
member. 

The  young  men  said  it  was  the  funniest  song 
that  had  ever  been  written,  and  that,  if  we  liked, 
they  would  get  Herr  Slossenn  Boschen,  whom 
they  knew  very  well,  to  sing  it  They  said  it  was 


114 


glxvjcje  m  itx  a  ^jcrat. 


* 

so  funny  that,  when  Herr  Slossenn  Boschen  had 
sung  it  once  before  the  German  Emperor,  he  (the 
German  Emperor)  had  had  to  be  carried  off  to 
bed. 

They  said  nobody  could  sing  it  like  Herr  Slos¬ 
senn  Boschen;  he  was  so  intensely  serious  all 
through  it  that  you  might  fancy  he  was  reciting  a 
tragedy,  and  that,  of  course,  made  it  all  the  fun¬ 
nier.  They  said  he  never  once  suggested  by  his 
tone  or  manner  that  he  was  singing  anything 
funny — that  would  spoil  it.  It  was  his  air  of 
seriousness,  almost  of  pathos,  that  made  it  so  irre¬ 
sistibly  amusing. 

We  said  we  yearned  to  hear  it,  that  we  wanted 
a' good  laugh;  and  they  went  down-stairs,  and 
fetched  Herr  Slossenn  Boschen. 

He  appeared  to  be  quite  pleased  to  sing  it,  for 
he  came  up  at  once,  and  sat  down  to  the  piano 
without  another  word. 

“Oh,  it  will  amuse  you.  You  will  laugh,” 
whispered  the  two  young  men,  as  they  passed 
through  the  room  and  took  up  an  unobtrusive 
position  behind  the  professor’s  back. 

Herr  Slossenn  Boschen  accompanied  himself. 
The  prelude  did  not  suggest  a  comic  song  exactly. 
It  was  a  weird,  soulful  air.  It  quite  made  one’s 
flesh  creep;  but  we  murmured  to  one  another 


Jghvce  iVUu  in  a  115 

that  it  was  the  German  ethod,  and  prepared  to 
enjoy  it. 

I  don’t  understand  Gr  nan  myself.  I  learned 
it  at  school,  but  forgot  e,  -ry  word  of  it  two  years 
after  I  had  left,  and  have  felt  much  better  ever 
sirme.  Still,  I  did  not  want  the  people  there  to 
guess  my  ignorance;  so  I  hit  upon  what  I 
tho  ught  to  be  rather  a  good  idea.  I  Kept  my  eye 
on  the  two  young  students,  and  followed  them. 
When  they  tittered,  I  tittered ;  when  they  roared, 
I  roared;  and  I  also  threw  in  a  little  snigger  all 
by  myself  now  and  then,  as  if  I  had  seen  a  bit  of 
humor  that  had  escaped  the  others.  I  considered 
*his  particularly  artful  on  my  part. 

I  noticed,  as  the  song  progressed,  that  a  good 
many  other  people  seemed  to  have  their  eye  fixed 
cn  the  two  young  men,  as  well  as  myself.  T  hesc 
o'her  people  also  tittered  when  the  young  men 
tittered,  and  roared  when  the  young  men  roared; 
and,  as  the  two  young  men  tittered  and  roared 
and  exploded  with  laughter  pretty  continuously 
all  through  the  song,  it  went  exceedingly  well. 

And  yet  that  German  professor  did  not  seem 
happy.  At  first,  when  we  began  to  laugh,  the 
expression  of  his  face  was  one  of  intense  sur¬ 
prise,  as  if  laughter  were  the  very  last  thing  he 
had  expected  to  be  greeted  with.  We  thought 
this  very  funny:  we  said  his  earnest  manner  was 


116 


Qhxcz  fjpua  in  vc 


half  the  humor.  The  slightest  hint  on  his  part 
that  he  knew  how  funny  he  was  would  have  com¬ 
pletely  mined  it  all.  As  we  continued  to  laugh, 
his  surprise  gave  way  to  an  air  of  annoyance  and 
indignation,  and  he  scowled  fiercely  round  upon 
us  all(except  upon  the  two  young  men,  who,  being 
behind  him,  he  could  not  see).  That  sent  us  into 
convulsions.  We  told  each  other  it  would  be  the 
death  of  us,  this  thing.  The  words  alone,  we 
said,  were  enough  to  send  us  into  fits,  but  added 
to  his  mock  seriousness — oh,  it  was  too  much! 

In  the  last  verse,  he  surpassed  himself.  He 
glowered  round  upon  us  with  a  look  of  such  con¬ 
centrated  ferocity  that,  but  for  our  being  fore¬ 
warned  as  to  the  German  method  of  comic  sing¬ 
ing,  we  should  have  been  nervous ;  and  he  threw 
such  a  wailing  note  of  agony  into  the  weird  music 
that,  if  we  had  not  known  it  was  a  funny  song, 
we  might  have  wept. 

He  finished  amid  a  perfect  shriek  of  laughter. 
We  said  it  was  the  funniest  thing  we  had  ever 
heard  in  all  our  lives.  We  said  how  strange  it 
was  that,  in  the  face  of  things  like  these,  there 
should  be  a  popular  notion  that  the  Germans 
hadn’t  any  sense  of  humor.  And  we  asked  the 
professor  why  he  didn’t  translate  the  song  into 
English,  so  that  the  common  people  could  under¬ 
stand  it,  and  hear  what  a  real  comic  song  was  like. 


e  ptetx  it*  a  gxntt. 


117 


Then  Herr  Slossenn  Boschen  got  up,  and  went 
on  awful.  He  swore  at  us  in  German  (which  1 
should  judge  to  be  a  singularly  effective  language 
for  that  purpose),  and. he  danced,  and  shook  hk 
fists,  and  called  us  all  the  English  he  knew.  He 
said  he  had  never  been  so  insulted  in  all  his  life. 

It  appeared  that  the  song  was  not  a  comic  song 
at  all.  It  was  about  a  young  girl  who  lived  in  the 
Hartz  Mountains,  and  who  had  given  up  her  Hie 
to  save  her  lover’s  soul ;  and  he  died,  and  met  her 
spirit  in  the  air;  and  then,  in  the  last  verse,  he 
jilted  her  spirit,  and  went  on  with  another  spirit — 
I’m  not  quite  sure  of  the  details,  but  it  was  some¬ 
thing  very  sad,  I  know.  Herr  Boschen  said  he 
had  sung  it  once  before  the  German  Emperor, 
and  he  (the  German  Emperor)  had  sobbed  like 
a  little  child.  He  (Herr  Boschen)  said  it  was 
generally  acknowledged  to  be  one  of  the  most 
tragic  and  pathetic  songs  in  the  German  ia® 
guage. 

It  was  a  very  trying  situation  for  us — very  try¬ 
ing.  There  seemed  to  be  no  answer.  We  looked 
around  for  the  two  young  men  who  had  done  this 
thing,  but  they  had  left  the  house  in  an  unosten¬ 
tatious  manner  immediately  after  the  end  of  the 
song. 

That  was  the  end  of  that  party,  i  never  saw 
a  party  break  up  so  quietly,  and  with  so  little  fess. 


118 


gtoje*  IlXcrx  in  a  gxrat. 


We  never  said  good-night  even  to  one  another. 
We  came  down-stairs  one  at  a  time,  walking 
softly,  and  keeping  the  shady  side.  We  asked 
the  servant  for  our  hats  and  coats  in  whispers, 
and  slipped  out,  and  got  round  the  corner  quick¬ 
ly,  avoiding  each  other  as  much  as  possible. 

I  have  never  taken  much  interest  in  German 
songs  since  then.- 

We  reached  Sunbury  Lock  at  half-past  three. 
The  river  is  sweetly  pretty  just  there  before  you 
come  to  the  gates,  and  the  backwater  is  charming; 
but  don’t  attempt  to  row  up  it. 

I  tried  to  do  so  once.  I  was  sculling,  and  asked 
the  fellows  who  were  steering  if  they  thought  it 
could  be  done,  and  they  said,  oh,  yes,  they  thought 
so,  if  I  pulled  hard.  We  were  just  under  the  little 
foot-bridge  that  crosses  it  between  the  two  weirs, 
when  they  said  this,  and  I  bent  down  over  the 
sculls,  and  set  myself  up,  and  pulled. 

I  pulled  splendidly.  I  got  well  into  a  steady 
rhythmical  swing.  I  put  my  arms,  and  my  legs, 
and  my  back  into  it."'  I  set  myself  a  good,  quick, 
dashing  stroke,  and  worked  in  really  grand  style. 
My  two  friends  said  it  was  a  pleasure  to  watch 
me.  At  the  end  of  five  minutes  I  thought  we 
ought  to  be  pretty  near  the  weir,  and  I  looked  up. 
We  were  under  the  bridge,  in  exactly  the  same 


Qftvzz  | WLm  in  a  gxrai. 


119 


spot  that  we  were  when  I  began,  and  there  were 
those  two  idiots,  injuring  themselves  by  violent 
laughing.  I  had  been  grinding  away  like  mad 
to  keep  that  boat  stuck  still  under  that  bridge.  I 
let  other  people  pull  up  backwaters  against  strong 
streams  now. 

We  sculled  up  to  Walton,  a  rather  large  place 
for  a  riverside  town.  As  with  all  riverside  places, 
only  the  tiniest  corner  of  it  comes  down  to  the 
water,  so  that  from  the  boat  you  might  fancy  it 
was  a  village  of  some  half-dozen  houses,  all  told 
Windsor  and  Abingdon  are  the  only  towns  be¬ 
tween  London  and  Oxford  that  you  can  really 
see  anything  of  from  the  stream.  All  the  others 
hide  round  corners,  and  merely  peep  at  the  river 
down  one  street:  my  thanks  to  them  for  being  so 
considerate,  and  leaving  the  river-banks  to  woods 
and  fields  and  water-works. 

Even  Reading,  though  it  does  its  best  to  spoil 
and  sully  and  make  hideous  as  much  of  the  river 
as  it  can  reach,  is  good-natured  enough  to  keep 
its  ugly  face  a  good  deal  out  of  sight. 

Caesar,  of  course,  had  a  little  place  at  Walton 
— a  camp,  or  an  entrenchment,  or  something  oi 
that  sort.  Caesar  was  a  regular  up-river  man 
Also  Queen  Elizabeth,  she  was  there,  too.  Yor 
can  never  get  away  from  that  woman,  go  when 
you  will.  Cromwell  and  Bradshaw  (not  the  guide 


120 


gjtote  2$tjetx  in  a  gout. 


man,  but  the  King  Charles’  head  man)  likewise 
sojourned  here.  They  must  have  been  quite  a 
pleasant  little  party,  altogether. 

There  is  an  iron  “scold’s  bridle”  in  Walton 
Church.  They  used  these  things  in  ancient  days 
for  curbing  women’s  tongues.  They  have  given 
up  the  attempt  now.  I  suppose  iron  was  getting 
scarce,  and  nothing  else  would  be  strong  enough. 

There  are  also  tombs  of  note  in  the  church,  and 
I  was  afraid  I  should  never  get  Harris  past  them; 
but  he  didn’t  seem  to  think  of  them,  and  we  went 
oe„  Above  the  bridge  the  river  winds  tremen¬ 
dously.  This  makes  it  look  picturesque;  but  it 
irritates  you  from  a  towing  or  sculling  point  of 
view,  and  causes  argument  between  the  man  who 
is  pulling  and  the  man  who  is  steering. 

You  pass  Oatlands  Park  on  the  right  bank  here. 
It  is  a  famous  old  place.  Henry  VIII  stole  h 
from  some  one  or  the  other,  I  forget  whom  no\V> 
and  lived  in  it.  There  is  a  grotto  in  the  park, 
which  one  can  see  for  a  fee,  and  which  is  supposed 
to  be  very  wonderful;  but  I  cannot  see  much  in 
it  myself.  The  late  Duchess  of  York,  who  lived 
at  Oatlands,  was  very  fond  of  dogs,  and  kept  an 
immense  number.  She  had  a  special  graveyard 
made,  in  which  to  bury  them  when  they  died,  and 
there  they  lie,  about  fifty  of  them,  with  a  tomb¬ 
stone  over  each,  and  an  epitaph  inscribed  thereon. 


Wi&n  in  a  gcrat. 


121 


Well,  I  dare  say  they  deserve  it  quite  as  much  as 
the  average  Christian  does. 

At  “Corway  Stakes” — the  first  bend  above 
Walton  Bridge — was  fought  a  battle  between 
Caesar  and  Cassivelaunus.  Cassivelaunus  had 
prepared  the  river  for  Caesar,  by  planting  it  full 
of  stakes  (and  had,  no  doubt,  put  up  a  notice- 
board).  But  Caesar  crossed  it  in  spite  of  this. 
You  couldn’t  choke  Caesar  off  that  river.  He  is 
the  sort  of  man  we  want  round  the  backwaters 
now. 

Halliford  and  Shepperton  are  both  pretty  little 
spots  where  they  touch  the  river;  but  there  is 
nothing  remarkable  about  either  of  them.  There 
is  a  tomb  in  Shepperton  churchyard,  however, 
with  a  poem  on  it,  and  I  was  nervous  lest  Harris 
should  want  to  get  out  and  fool  round  it.  I  saw 
him  fix  a  longing  eye  on  the  landing-stage  as  we 
drew  near  it,  so  I  managed,  by  an  adroit  move¬ 
ment,  to  jerk  his  cap  into  the  water,  and  in  the 
excitement  of  recovering  that,  and  his  indignation 
at  my  clumsiness,  he  forgot  all  about  his  beloved 
graves. 

At  Weybridge,  the  Wey  (a  pretty  little  stream, 
navigable  for  small  boats  up  to  Guildford,  and 
one  which  I  have  always  been  making  up  my 
mind  to  explore,  and  never  have),  the  Bourne 
and  the  Basingstroke  Canal  all  enter  the  Thames 


122 


^fxrce  vfcXw  in  a  goat. 


together.  The  lock  is  just  opposite  the  town, 
and  the  first  thing  that  we  saw,  when  we  came  in 
view  of  it,  was  George’s  blazer  on  one  of  the  lock 
gates,  closer  insp?:hcn  showing  that  George  was 
inside  it. 

Montmorency  *et  'up  a  furious  barking,  I 
shrieked,  Harris  'oared;  George  waved  his  hat, 
and  yelled  back.  The  lock-keeper  rushed  out 
with  a  drag,  under  the  impression  that  somebody 
had  fallen  into  the  lock,  and  appeared  annoyed 
at  finding  that  no  one  had. 

George  hrd  rather  a  curious  oilskin-covered 
parcel  in  hi  '  hand.  It  was  round  and  flat  at  one 
end,  with  a  long  straight  handle  sticking  out  of  it. 

“What’s  ;hat?”  said  Harris — “a  frying-pan?” 

“No,”  srid  George,  with  a  strange,  wild  look 
glittering  in  his  eyes;  “they  are  all  the  rage  this 
season;  everybody  has  got  them  up  the  river. 
It’s  a  b/'ijo.” 

“I  nver  knew  you  played  the  banjo!”  cried 
Harris  and  I,  in  one  breath. 

“N'  t  exactly,”  replied  George:  “but  it’s  very 
easy,  they  tell  me;  and  I’ve  got  the  instruction 
bocd  *” 


glxvjejc  gJXjctx  in  a  gcuxl. 


128 


CHAPTER  IX. 

We  made  George  work,  now  we  had  got  him. 
He  did  not  want  to  work,  of  course;  that  goes 
without  savin0’.  He  had  iiad  a  hard  time  in  the 

•  i _ . 

city,  so  he  explained.  Harris,  who  is  callous  in 
his  nature,  and  not  prone  to  pity,  said: 

“Ah!  and  now  you  are  going  to  have  a  hard 
time  on  the  river  for  a  change;  change  is  good 
tor  everyone.  Out  you  get!” 

He  could  not  in  conscience — not  even  George’s 
conscience — object,  though  he  did  suggest  that, 
perhaps,  it  would  be  better  for  him  to  stop  in  the 
boat,  and  get  tea  ready,  while  Harris  and  I  towed, 
because  getting  tea  was  such  a  worrying  task,  and 
Harris  and  I  looked  tired.  The  only  reply  we 
made  to  this,  however,  was  to  pass  him  over  the 
tow-line,  and  he  took  it  and  stepped  out. 

There  is  something  very  strange  and  unac¬ 
countable  about  a  tow-line.  You  roll  it  up  with 
as  much  patience  and  care  as  you  would  take  to 
fold  up  a  new  pair  of  trousers,  and  five  minutes 
afterward  when  you  pick  it  up,  it  is  one  ghastly, 
soul-revolting  tangle. 

I  do  not  wish  to  be  insulting,  but  I  firmly  be¬ 
lieve  that  if  you  took  an  average  tow-line,  and 


124 


Qtvczz  gPtjetx  in  a  gxrax. 


stretched  it  out  straight  across  the  middle  of  a 
field,  and  then  turned  your  back  on  it  for  thirty 
seconds,  that,  when  you  looked  round  again,  you 
would  find  that  it  had  got  itself  altogether  in  a 
heap  in  the  middle  of  the  field,  and  had  twisted  it¬ 
self  up  and  tied  itself  into  knots,  and  lost  its  two 
ends,  and  become  all  loops;  and  it  would  take 
you  a  good  half-hour,  sitting  down  there  on  the 
grass  and  swearing  all  the  while,  to  disentangle  it 
again. 

That  is  my  opinion  of  tow-lines  in  general.  Of 
course,  there  may  be  honorable  exceptions;  I  do 
not  say  there  are  not.  There  may  be  tow-lines 
that  are  a  credit  to  their  profession — conscien¬ 
tious,  respectable  tow-lines — tow-lines  that  do  not 
imagine  they  are  crochet-work,  and  try  to  knit 
themselves  up  into  antimacassars  the  instant  they 
are  left  to  themselves.  I  say  there  may  be  such 
tow-lines;  I  sincerely  hope  there  are.  But  I 
have  not  met  with  them. 

This  tow-line  I  had  taken  in  myself  just  before 
we  had  got  to  the  lock.  I  would  not  let  Harris 
touch  it,  because  he  is  careless.  I  had  looped  it 
round  slowly  and  cautiously,  and  tied  it  up  in  the 
middle,  and  folded  it  in  two,  and  laid  it  down 
gently  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat  Harris  had 
lifted  it  up  scientifically,  and  had  put  it  into 
George’s  hand.  George  had  taken  it  firmly,  and 


gtXeix  in  &  Stoat. 


125 


held  it  away  from  him,  and  had  begun  to  unravel 
it  as  if  he  were  taking  the  swaddling  clothes  oil  a 
new-bcrn  infant;  and,  before  he  had  unwourd  a 
dozen  yards,  the  thing  was  more  like  a  badly 
made  doormat  than  anything  else. 

It  is  always  the  same,  and  the  same  sort  of  thing 
always  goes  on  in  connection  with  it.  The  man 
on  the  bank,  who  is  trying  to  disentangle  it,  thinks 
all  the  fault  lies  with  the  man  who  rolled  it  up; 
and  when  a  man  up  the  river  thinks  a  tiling,  he 
says  it. 

“What  have  you  been  trying  to  do  with  it, 
make  a  fishing-net  of  it?  You’ve  made  a  nice 
mess,  you  have;  why  couldn’t  you  wind  it  up 
properly,  you  silly  dummy?”  he  grunts  from  time 
to  time  as  he  struggles  wildly  with  it,  and  lays  it 
out  flat  on  the  tow-path,  and  runs  round  and 
round  it,  trying  to  find  the  end. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  man  who  wound  it  up 
thinks  the  whole  cause  of  the  muddle  rests  with 
the  man  who  is  trying  to  unwind  it. 

“It  was  all  right  when  you  took  it!”  he  exclaims 
indignantly.  “Why  don’t  you  think  what  you 
are  doing?  You  go  about  things  in  such  a  slap¬ 
dash  style.  You’d  get  a  scaffolding  pole  en¬ 
tangled,  you  would!” 

And  then  they  feel  so  angry  with  one  another 
that  they  would  like  to  hang  each  other  with  the 


126 


•gfottcje  tn  in  a  ISxrat. 


thing.  Ten  minutes  go  by,  and  the  first  man 
gives  a  yell  and  goes  mad,  and  dances  on  the  rope, 
and  tries  to  pull  it  straight  by  seizing  hold  of  the 
first  piece  that  comes  to  his  hand  and  hauling  at 
it.  Of  course  this  only  gets  it  into  a  tighter  tangle 
than  ever.  Then  the  second  man  climbs  out  of 
the  boat  and  comes  to  help  him,  and  they  get  in 
each  other’s  way  and  hinder  one  another.  They 
both  ge'  hold  of  the  same  bit  of  line,  and  pull  it 
in  opposite  directions,  and  wonder  where  it  is 
caught.  In  the  end  they  do  get  it  clear,  and  then 
turn  round  and  find  that  the  boat  has  drifted  off 
and  is  making  straight  for  the  weir. 

This  really  happened  once  to  my  own  knowl¬ 
edge.  It  was  up  by  Boveney,  one  rather  wind) 
morning.  We  were  pulling  down  stream,  and, 
as  we  came  round  the  bend,  we  noticed  a  couple 
of  men  on  the  bank.  They  were  looking  at  each 
other  with  as  bewildered  and  helplessly  miserable  ' 
an  expression  as  I  have  ever  witnessed  on  any 
human  countenance  before  or  since,  and  they 
held  a  long  tow-line  between  them.  It  was  clear 
that  something  had  happened,  so  we  eased  up  and 
asked  them  what  was  the  matter. 

“Why,  our  boat’s  gone  off!”  they  rephed  in  an 
indignant  tone.  “We  just  got  out  to  disentangle 
the  tow-line,  and  when  we  looked  round,  it  was 
gone!” 


ghvzz  I^Cjcu  in  it  gcr&t. 


127 


And  they  seemed  hurt  at  what  they  evidently 
regarded  as  a  mean  and  ungrateful  act  on  the  part 
of  the  boat. 

We  found  the  truant  for  them  half  a  mile 
further  down,  held  by  some  rushes,  and  we 
brought  it  back  to  them.  I  bet  they  did  not  give 
that  boat  another  chance  for  a  week. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  picture  of  these  two 
men  walking  up  and  down  the  bank  with  a  tow- 
line,  looking  for  their  boat. 

One  sees  a  good  many  funny  incidents  up  the 
river  in  connection  with  towing.  One  of  the 
most  common  is  the  sight  of  a  couple  of  towers, 
walking  briskly  along,  deep  in  an  animated  dis¬ 
cussion,  while  the  man  in  the  boat,  a  hundred 
yards  behind  them,  is  vainly  shrieking  to  them 
to  stop,  and  making  frantic  signs  of  distress  with 
a  scull.  Something  has  gone  wrong;  the  rudder 
has  come  off,  or  the  boat-hook  has  slipped  over¬ 
board,  or  his  hat  has  dropped  into  the  water  and 
is  floating  rapidly  down  stream.  He  calls  to  them 
to  stop,  quite  gently  and  politely  at  first. 

“Hi!  stop  a  minute,  will  you?”  he  shouts  cheer¬ 
ily.  “Pve  dropped  my  hat  overboard.” 

Then:  “Hi!  Tom — Dick!  can’t  vou  hear!” 
not  quite  so  affably  this  time. 

Then:  “Hi!  Confound  you,  you  dunderheadcd 
idiots!  Hi!  stop!  Oh,  you - P 


128 


gferjejc  JfcXjetx  in  a  ghrai. 


After  that  he  springs  up,  and  dances  about, 
and  roars  himself  red  in  the  face,  and  curses 
everything  he  knows.  And  the  small  boys  on  the 
bank  stop  and  jeer  at  him,  and  pitch  stones  at 
him  as  he  is  pulled  along  past  them,  at  the  rate  of 
four  miles  an  hour,  and  can’t  get  out. 

Much  of  this  sort  of  trouble  would  be  saved  if 
those  who  are  towing  would  keep  remembering 
that  they  are  towing,  and  give  a  pretty  frequent 
look  round  to  see  how  their  man  is  getting  on. 
It  is  best  to  let  one  person  tow.  When  two  are 
doing  it  they  get  chattering  and  forget,  and  the 
boat  itself,  offering,  as  it  does,  but  little  resistance, 
is  of  no  real  service  in  reminding  them  of  the  fact 

As  an  example  of  how  utterly  oblivious  a  pair 
of  towers  can  be  to  their  work,  George  told  us, 
later  on  in  the  evening,  when  we  were  discussing 
the  subject  after  supper,  of  a  very  curious  in¬ 
stance. 

He  and  three  other  men,  so  he  said,  were  scuff¬ 
ing  a  very  heavily  laden  boat  up  from  Maiden¬ 
head  one  evening,  and  a  little  above  Cookham 
lock  they  noticed  a  fellow  and  a  girl  walking  along 
the  tow-path,  both  deep  in  an  apparently  interest¬ 
ing  and  absorbing  conversation.  They  were  car¬ 
rying  a  boat-hook  between  them,  and  attached 
to  the  boat-hook  was  a  tow-line,  which  trailed  be¬ 
hind  them,  its  end  in  the  water.  No  boat  was  near, 


glxvjce  g&cu  itx  a  gjcratf. 


129 


*io  boat  was  in  sight  There  must  have  been  a 
boat  attached  to  that  tow-line  at  some  time  or 
other,  that,  was  certain ;  but  what  had  become  of 
it,  what  ghastly  fate  had  overtaken  it,  and  those 
who  had  been  left  in  it,  was  buried  in  mystery. 
Whatever  the  accident  may  have  been,  however, 
it  had  in  no  way  disturbed  the  young  lady  and 
gentleman  who  were  towing.  They  had  the  boat¬ 
hook  and  they  had  the  line,  and  that  seemed  to 
be  all  that  they  thought  necessary  to  their  work. 
George  was  about  to  call  out  and  wake  them  up, 
but  at  that  moment  a  bright  idea  flashed  across 
him,  and  he  didn’t.  He  got  the  hitcher  instead, 
and  reached  over,  and  drew  in  the  end  of  the  tow- 
line;  and  they  made  a  loop  in  it,  and  put  it  over 
their  mast,  and  then  they  tidied  up  the  sculls,  and 
went  and  sat  down  in  the  stern,  and  lit  their 
pipes. 

And  that  young  man  and  young  woman  towed 
those  four  hulking  chaps  and  a  heavy  boat  up  to 
Marlow. 

George  said  he  never  saw  so  much  thoughtful 
sadness  concentrated  into  one  glance  before,  as 
when,  at  the  lock,  that  young  couple  grasped  the 
idea  that,  for  the  last  two  miles,  they  had  been 
towing  the  wrong  boat.  George  fancied  that,  if 
it  had  not  been  for  the  restraining  influence  of  the 


130 


gto zz  I^Cjctx  in  a  gxrat. 


sweet  woman  at  his  side,  the  young  man  might 
have  given  way  to  violent  language. 

The  maiden  was  the  .first  to  recover  from  her 
surprise,  and,  when  she  did,  she  clasped  her 
hands,  and  said  wildly: 

“Oh,  Henry,  then  where  is  auntie ?” 

“Did  they  ever  recover  the  old  lady?”  asked 
Harris. 

George  replied  he  did  not  know. 

Another  example  of  the  dangerous  want  of 
sympathy  between  the  tower  and  the  towed  was 
witnessed  by  George  and  myself  once  up  neai 
Walton.  It  was  where  the  tow-path  shelves 
gently  down  into  the  water,  and  we  were  camping 
on  the  opposite  bank,  noticing  things  in  general. 
By  and  by  a  small  boat  came  in  sight,  towed 
through  the  water  at  a  tremendous  pace  by  a 
powerful  barge  horse,  on  which  sat  a  very  small 
boy.  Scattered  about  the  boat,  in  dreamy  and 
reposeful  attitudes,  lay  five  fellows,  the  man  who 
was  steering  having  a  particularly  restful  appear¬ 
ance. 

“I  should  like  to  see  him  pull  the'  wrong  line,” 
murmured  George,  as  they  passed.  And  at  that 
precise  moment  the  man  did  it,  and  the  boat 
rushed  up  the  bank  with  a  noise  like  the  ripping 
up  of  forty  thousand  linen  sheets.  Two  men,  a 


gtoe*  pun  in  a  Jloat. 


131 


hamper,  and  three  oars  immediately  left  the  boat 
on  the  larboard  side,  and  reclined  on  the  bank, 
and  one  and  a  half  moments  afterward  two  other 
men  disembarked  from  the  starboard,  and  sat 
down  among  boat-hooks  and  sails  and  carpet¬ 
bags  and  bottles.  The  last  man  went  on  twenty 
yards  further,  and  then  got  out  on  his  head. 

This  seemed  to  sort  of  lighten  the  boat,  and  it 
went  on  much  easier,  the  small  boy  shouting  at 
the  top  of  his  voice,  and  urging  his  steed  into  a 
gallop.  The  fellows  sat  up  and  stared  at  one 
another.  It  was  some  seconds  before  they  real¬ 
ized  what  had  happened  to  them,  but,  when  they 
did,  they  began  to  shout  lustily  for  the  boy  to 
stop.  He,  however,  was  too  much  occupied  with 
the  horse  to  hear  them,  and  we  watched  them, 
flying  after  him,  until  the  distance  hid  them  from 
view. 

I  cannot  say  I  was  sorry  at  their  mishap.  In¬ 
deed,  I  only  wish  that  all  the  young  fools  who 
have  their  boats  towed  in  this  fashion — and  plenty 
do — could  meet  with  similar  misfortunes.  Be¬ 
sides  the  risk  they  run  themselves,  they  become  a 
danger  and  an  annoyance  to  every  other  boat 
they  pass.  Going  at  the  pace  they  do,  it  is  im¬ 
possible  for  them  to  get  out  of  anybody  else’s  way, 
or  for  anybody  else  to  get  out  of  theirs.  Their 
line  gets  hitched  across  your  mast,  and  overturns 


132 


gtajeje  iJXcu  xix  x  gjorat. 


you,  or  it  catches  somebody  in  the  boat,  and 
either  throws  them  into  the  water,  or  cuts  their 
face  open.  The  best  plan  is  to  stand  your  ground 
and  be  prepared  to  keep  them  off  with  the  butt- 
end  of  a  mast. 

Of  all  experiences  in  connection  with  towing, 
the  most  exciting  is  being  towed  by  girls.  If  is 
a  sensation  that  nobody  ought  to  miss.  It  takes 
three  girls  to  tow  always;  two  hold  the  rope,  and 
the  other  one  runs  round  and  round,  and  giggles. 
They  generally  begin  by  getting  themselves  tied 
up.  They  get  the  line  round  their  legs,  and  have 
to  sit  down  on  the  path  and  undo  each  other,  and 
then  they  twist  it  round  their  necks,  and  are 
nearly  strangled.  They  fix  it  straight,  however, 
at  last,  and  start  off  at  a  run,  pulling  the  boat 
along  at  quite  a  dangerous  pace.  At  the  end  of 
a  hundred  yards  they  are  naturally  breathless,  and 
suddenly  stop,  and  all  sit  down  on  the  grass  and 
laugh,  and  your  boat  drifts  out  to  midstream  and 
turns  round,  before  you  know  what  has  happened, 
or  can  get  hold  of  a  scull.  Then  they  stand  uk\ 
and  are  surprised. 

“Oh,  look!”  they  say;  “lie’s  gone  right  out  into 
the  middle.” 

They  pull  on  pretty  steadily  for  a  bit,  and  then 
it  all  at  once  occurs  to  one  of  them  that  she  will 


^Iivcjc  plctx  in  a  J&oat. 


133 


pin  up  her  frock,  and  they  ease  up  for  the  pur¬ 
pose,  and  the  boat  runs  aground. 

You  jump  up,  and  push  it  off,  and  you  shout 
to  them  not  to  stop. 

“Yes.  What’s  the  matter?”  they  shou*  back. 

“Don’t  stop!”  you  roar. 

“Don’t  what?” 

“Don’t  stop — go  on — go  on!” 

“Go  back,  and  see  what  it  is  they  want,”  says 
one;  and  Emily  comes  back,  and  asks  what  it  is. 

“What  do  you  want?”  she  says;  “anything  hap¬ 
pened?” 

“No,”  you  reply,  “it’s  all  right;  only  go  on,  you 
know — don’t  stop.” 

“Why  not?” 

“Why,  we  can’t  steer,  if  you  keep  stopping. 
You  must  keep  some  way  on  the  boat.” 

“Keep  some  what?” 

“Some  way — you  must  keep  the  boat  moving.” 

“Oh,  all  right,  I’ll  tell  ’em.  Are  we  doing  it  all 
right?” 

“Oh,  yes,  very  nicely  indeed,  only  don’t  stop.” 

“It  doesn’t  seem  difficult  at  all.  I  thought  it 
was  so  hard.” 

“Oh,  no,  it’s  simple  enough.  You  want  to  keep 
on  steady  at  it,  that’s  all.” 

“I  see.  Give  me  out  my  red  shawl,  it’s  under 
the  cushion.” 


134 


^Ixvce  IJXetf  in  a  goat. 


You  find  the  shawl,  and  hand  it  out,  and  by 
this  time  another  one  has  come  back  and  thinks 
she  will  have  hers,  too,  and  they  take  Mary's  on 
chance,  and  Mary  does  not  want  it,  so  they  bring 
it  back  and  have  a  pocket-comb  instead.  It  is 
about  twenty  minutes  before  they  get  oft  again, 
and,  at  the  next  corner,  they  see  a  cow,  and  you 
have  to  leave  the  boat  to  chivy  the  cow  out  of  their 
way. 

There  is  never  a  dull  moment1  in  the  boat  while 
girls  are  towing  it 

George  got  the  line  right  after  awhile,  and 
towed  us  steadily  on  to  Penton  Hook.  There  we 
discussed  the  important  question  of  camping. 
We  had  decided  to  sleep  on  board  that  night,  and 
we  had  either  to  lay  up  just  about  there,  or  go  on 
past  Staines.  It  seemed  early  to  think  about 
shutting  up  then,  however,  with  the  sun  still  in 
the  heavens,  and  we  settled  to  push  straight  on 

for  Runnymede,  three  and  a  half  miles  farther,  a 

/ 

quiet,  wooded  part  of  the  river,  and  where  there 
is  good  shelter. 

We  all  wished,  however,  afterward,  that  we  had 
stopped  at  Penton  Hook.  Three  or  four  miles 
up  stream  is  a  trifle,  early  in  the  morning,  but  it 
is  a  weary  pull  at  the  end  of  a  long  day.  You  take 
no  interest  in  the  scenery  during  these  last  few 


135 


Shvcc  WLzn  in  a  goat. 

miles.  Yon  do  not  chat  and  laugh.  Every  h “If 
mile  you  cover  seems  like  two.  You  can  hard./ 
believe  you  are  only  where  you  are,  and  you  are 
convinced  that  the  map  must  be  wrong;  and, 
when  you  have  trudged  along  for  what  seems  to 
you  at  least  ten  miles,  and  still  the  lock  is  not  in 
sight,  you  begin  to  seriously  fear  that  somebody 
must  have  sneaked  it,  and  run  off  with  it. 

I  remember  being  terribly  upset  once  up  the 
river  (in  a  figurative  sense,  I  mean).  I  was  out 
with  a  young  lady — cousin  on  my  mother's  side 
— and  we  were  pulling  down  to  Goring.  It  was 
rather  late,  and  we  were  anxious  to  get  in — at 
least  she  was  anxious  to  get  in.  It  was  half-past 
six  when  we  reached  Benson’s  lock,  and  dusk 
was  drawing  on,  and  she  began  to  get  excited 
then.  She  said  she  must  be  in  to  supper.  I  said 
it  was  a  thing  I  felt  I  wanted  to  be  in  at,  too ;  and 
I  drew  out  a  map  I  had  with  me  to  see  exactly  how 
far  it  was.  I  saw  it  was  just  a  mile  and  a  half  to 
the  next  lock — Wallingford — and  five  on  from 
there  to  Cleve. 

“Oh,  it’s  all  right,’’  I  said.  “We'll  be  through 
the  next  lock  before  seven,  and  then  there  is  only 
one  more;”  and  I  settled  down  and  pulled  steadily 
away. 

We  passed  the  bridge,  and  soon  after  that  I 
asked  if  she  saw  the  lock.  She  said  no.  she  did  not 


136 


Jghvcc  H&etx  in  a  gxrat. 


see  any  lock;  and  I  said  “Oh!”  and  pulled  on. 
Another  five  minutes  went  by,  and  then  I  asked 
her  to  look  again. 

“No,”  she  said;  “I  can’t  see  any  signs  of  a 
lock.” 

“You — you  are  sure  you  know  a  lock,  when  you 
do  see  one?”  I  asked  hesitatingly,  not  wishing  to 
offend  her. 

The  question  did  offend  her,  however,  and  she 
suggested  that  I  had  better  look  for  myself;  so 
I  laid  down  the  sculls,  arid  took  a  view.  The 
river  stretched  out  straight  before  us  in  the  twi¬ 
light  for  about  a  mile;  not  a  ghost  of  a  lock  was  to 
be  seen. 

“You  don’t  think  we  have  lost  our  wav,  do 
you?”  asked  my  companion. 

I  did  not  see  how  that  was  possible;  though, 
as  I  suggested,  we  might  have  somehow  got  into 
the  weir  stream,  and  be  making  for  the  falls. 

This  idea  did  not  comfort  her  in  the  least,  and 
she  began  to  cry.  She  said  we  would  both  be 
drowned,  and  that  it  was  a  judgment  on  her  for 
coming  out  with  me. 

It  seemed  an  excessive  punishment,  I  thought; 
but  my  cousin  thought  not,  and  hoped  it  would 
all  soon  be  over. 

I  tried  to  reassure  her  and  .made  light  of  the 
whole  affair.  I  said  that  the  fact  evidently  was 


gftvce  fg&m  in  a  goat. 


137 


'hat  I  was  not  rowing  as  fast  as  I  fancied  I  was, 
but  that  we  would  soon  reach  the  lock  now ;  and 
I  pulled  on  for  another  mile. 

Then  I  began  to  get  nervous  myself.  I  looked 
again  at  the  map.  There  was  Wallingford  lock, 
clearly  marked,  a  mile  and  a  half  below  Benson’s. 
It  was  a  good,  reliable  map ;  and,  besides,  I  recol¬ 
lected  the  lock  myself.  I  had  been  through:  it 
twice.  Where  were  we?  What  had  happened  to 
us?  I  began  to  think  that  it  must  all  be  a  dream, 
and  that  I  was  really  asleep  in  bed,  and  should 
wake  up  in  a  minute,  and  be  told  it  was  past  ten. 

I  asked  my  cousin  if  she  thought  it  could  be  a 
dream,  and  she  replied  that  she  was  just  about  to 
ask  me  the  same  question ;  and  then  we  both  won¬ 
dered  if  we  were  both  asleep,  and  if  so,  who  was 
the  real  one  that  was  dreaming,  and  who  was  the 
one  that  was  only  a  dream;  it  got  quite  inter¬ 
esting. 

I  still  went  on  pulling,  however,  and  still  no 
lock  came  in  sight,  and  the  river  grew  more  and 
more  gloomy  and  mysterious  under  the  gathering 
shadows  of  night,  and  things  seemed  to  be  getting 
weird  and  uncanny.  I  thought  of  hobgoblins  and 
banshees,  and  will-o’-the-wisps,  and  those  wicked 
girls  who  sit  up  all  night  on  the  rocks,  and  lure 
people  into  whirlpools  and  things;  and  I  washed 
I  had  been  a  better  man,  and  knew  more  hymns; 


138 


gJTive.c  |XXeu  in  a 


and  in  the  middle  of  these  reflections  I  heard  the 
blessed  strains  of  “He’s  got  ’em  bad,”  played, 
badly,  on  a  concertina,  and  knew  that  we  were 
saved. 

I  do  not  admire  the  tones  of  a  concertina,  as  a 
rule ;  but  oh !  how  beautiful  the  music  seemed  to 
us  both  then — far,  far  more  beautiful  than  the 
voice  of  Orpheus  or  the  lute  of  Apollo,  or  any¬ 
thing  of  that  sort  could  have  sounded.  Heavenly 
melody,  in  our  then  state  of  mind,  would  only 
have  still  further  harrowed  us.  A  soul-moving 
harmony,  correctly  performed,  we  should  have 
taken  as  a  spirit-warning,  and  have  given  up  all 
hope.  But  about  the  strains  of  “He’s  got  ’em  bad,” 
jerked  spasmodically,  and  with  involuntary  vari¬ 
ations,  out  of  a  wheezy  accordion,  there  was 
something  singularly  human  and  reassuring. 

The  sweet  sounds  drew  nearer,  and  soon  the 
boat  from  which  they  were  worked  lay  along¬ 
side  us. 

It  contained  a  party  of  provincial  ’Arrys  and 
’Arriets,  out  for  a  moonlight  sail.  (There  was 
not  any  moon,  but  that  was  not  their  fault.)  ± 
never  saw  more  attractive,  lovable  people  in  all 
my  life.  I  hailed  them,  and  asked  if  they  could 
tell  me  the  way  to  Wallingford  lock;  and  I  ex¬ 
plained  that  I  had  been  looking  for  it  for  the  past 
two  hours. 


gfrvec  in  a  goat,  u* 

“Wallingford  lock!”  they  answered.  “Yor’ 
love  yon,  sir,  that’s  been  done  away  with  for  over 
a  year.  There  ain’t  no  Wallingford  lock  now,  sir. 
You’re  close  to  Cleve  now.  Blow  me  tight  if  'ere 
ain’t  a  gentleman  been  looking  for  Wallingford 
lock,  Bill!” 

I  had  never  thought  of  that.  I  wanted  to  fall 
upon  all  their  necks  and  bless  them;  but  the 
stream  was  running  too  strong  just  there  to  allow 
of  this,  so  I  had  to  content  myself  with  mere  cold¬ 
sounding  words  of  gratitude. 

We  thanked  them  over  and  over  again,  and 
we  said  it  was  a  lovely  night,  and  we  wished  them 
a  pleasant  trip,  and,  I  think,  I  invited  them  all  to 
come  and  spend  a  week  with  me,  and  my  cousin 
said  her  mother  would  be  pleased  to  see  them. 
And  we  sang  the  soldier’s  chorus  out  of  “Faust” 
and  got  home  in  time  for  supper  after  all. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Harris  and  I  began  to  think  that  Bell  Wier 
lock  must  have  been  done  away  with  after  the 
iame  manner.  George  had  towed  us  up  to 
* 'taines,  and  we  had  taken  the  boat  from  there, 


140 


glxvjejc  f&jett  in  <i  g^oat. 


and  it  seemed  that  we  were  dragging  fifty  tons 
after  us,  and  were  walking  forty  miles.  It  was 
half-past  seven  when  we  were  through,  and  we 
all  got  in  and  sculled  up  close  to  the  left  bank, 
looking  out  for  a  spot  to  haul  up  in. 

We  had  originally  intended  to  go  on  to  Magna 
Charta  Island,  a  sweetly  pretty  part  of  the  river, 
where  it  winds  through  a  soft,  green  valley,  and 
to  camp  in  one  of  the  many  picturesque  inlets  to 
be  found  round  that  tiny  shore.  But,  somehow, 
we  didn’t  feel  that  we  yearned  for  the  picturesque 
nearly  so  much  now  as  we  had  earlier  in  the  day. 
A  bit  of  water  between  a  coal-barge  and  a  gas¬ 
works  would  have  quite  satisfied  us  for  that  night. 
We  did  not  want  scenery.  We  wanted  to  have 
our  supper  and  go  to  bed.  However,  we  did  pull 
up  to  the  point — “Picnic  Point,”  it  is  called — and 
dropped  into  a  very  pleasant  nook  under  a  great 
elm  tree,  to  the  spreading  roots  of  which  we  fas¬ 
tened  the  boat. 

Then  we  thought  we  were  going  to  have  sup¬ 
per  (we  had  dispensed  with  tea,  so  as  to  save 
time),  but  George  said  no;  that  we  had  better  get 
the  canvas  up  first,  before  it  got  quite  da:  k,  and 
while  we  could  see  what  we  were  doing.  Then, 
he  said  all  our  work  would  be  done,  and  wo  could 
sit  down  to  eat  with  an  easy  mind. 

Thafc  canvas  wanted  more  putting  up  than  I 


gttfce*  fj&cu  in  a  goat  1±] 

think  any  of  us  had  bargained  for.  It  looked  so 
simple  in  the  abstract.  You  took  five  iron  arches, 
like  gigantic  croquet  hoops  and  fitted  them  up 
over  the  boat,  and  then  stretched  the  canvas  over 
them,  and  fastened  it  down:  it  would  take  quite 
ten  minutes,  we  thought. 

That  was  an  under-estimate. 

We  took  up  the  hoops,  and  began  to  drop  them 
into  the  sockets  placed  for  them.  You  would  not 
•magine  this  to  be  dangerous  work;  looking  back 
now,  the  wonder  to  me  is  that  any  of  us  are  alive 
to  tell  the  tale.  They  were  not  hoops,  they  were 
demons.  First  they  would  not  fit  into  their 
sockets  at  all,  and  we  had  to  jump  on  them,  and 
kick  them,  and  hammer  at  them  with  the  boat¬ 
hook;  and,  when  they  were  in,  it  turned  out  that 
they  were  the  wrong  hoops  for  these  particular 
sockets,  and  they  had  to  come  out  again. 

But  they  would  not  come  out  until  two  of  us 
had  gone  and  struggled  with  them  for  five  min¬ 
utes,  when  they  would  jump  up  suddenly,  and 
try  and  throw  us  into  the  water  and  drown  us. 
They  had  hinges  in  the  middle,  and,  when  we 
were  not  looking,  they  nipped  us  with  these 
hinges  in  delicate  parts  of  the  body;  and,  while 
we  were  wrestling  with  one  side  of  the  hoop,  and 
endeavoring  to  persuade  it  to  do  its  duty,  the 


142 


in  <*  3Goat 


other  side  would  come  behind  us  in  a  cowardly 
manner,  and  hit  us  over  the  head. 

We  got  them  fixed  at  last,  and  then  all  that 
was  to  be  done  was  to  arrange  the  covering  over 
them.  George  unrolled  it,  and  fastened  one  end 
over  the  nose  of  the  boat.  Harris  stood  in  the 
middle  to  take  it  from  George  and  roll  it  on  to 
me,  and  I  kept  by  the  stern  to  receive  it.  It  was 
a  long  time  coming  down  to  me.  George  did  his 
part  all  right,  but  it  was  new  work  to  Harris,  and 
he  bungled  it. 

How  he  managed  it  I  do  not  know,  he  could 
not  explain  himself;  but  by  some  mysterious  pro¬ 
cess  or  other  he  succeeded,  after  ten  minutes  of 
superhuman  effort,  in  getting  himself  completely 
rolled  up  in  it.  lie  was  so  firmly  wrapped  round 
and  tucked  in  and  folded  over,  that  he  could  not 
get  out.  He,. of  course,  made  frantic  struggles 
for  freedom—  -the  birthright  of  every  Englishman 
— and,  in  doing  so  (I  learned  this  afterward), 
knocked  over  George;  and  then  George,  swear¬ 
ing  at  Harris,  began  to  struggle  too,  and  got  him¬ 
self  entangled  and  rolled  up. 

I  knew  nothing  about  all  this  at  the  time.  I 
did  not  understand  the  business  at  all  myself.  I 
had  been  told  to  stand  where  I  was,  and  wait  till 
the  canvas  came  to  me,  and  Montmorency  and  I 
stood  there  and  waited,  both  as  good  as  gold. 


3  luxe  pUtx  in  a  gloat. 


143 


We  could  see  the  canvas  being  violently  jerked 
and  tossed  about,  pretty  considerably;  but  we  sup¬ 
posed  this  was  part  of  the  method  and  did  not  in¬ 
terfere. 

We  also  heard  much  smothered  language  com¬ 
ing  from  underneath  it,  and  we  guessed  that  they 
were  finding  the  job  rather  troublesome,  and  con¬ 
cluded  that  we  would  wait  until  things  had  got  a 
little  simpler  before  we  joined  in. 

We  waited  some  time,  but  matters  seemed  to 
get  only  more  and  more  involved,  until,  at  last, 
George’s  head  came  wriggling  out  over  the  side 
of  the  boat,  and  spoke  up. 

It  said: 

“Give  us  a  hand  here,  can’t  you,  you  cuckoo; 
standing  there  like  a  stuffed  mummy,  when  you 
see  we  are  both  being  suffocated,  you  dummy!” 

I  never  could  withstand  an  appeal  for  help,  so 
I  went  and  undid  them;  not  before  it  was  time, 
either,  for  Harris  was  nearly  black  in  the  face. 

It  took  us  half  an  hour’s  hard  labor,  after  that, 
before  it  was  properly  up,  and  then  we  cleared 
the  decks,  and  got  our  supper.  We  put  the  kettle 
on  to  boil,  up  in  the  nose  of  the  boat,  and  went 
down  to  the  stern  and  pretended  to  take  no  no¬ 
tice  of  it,  but  set  to  work  to  get  the  other  things 
out. 

hat  is  the  only  way  to  get  a  kettle  to  boil  up 


gftvjeje  pCjett  in  n  Uxrarit. 


XU 

the  river.  If  it  sees  that  you  are  waiting  for  it  and 
are  anxious,  it  will  never  even  sing.  You  have  to 
go  away  and  begin  your  meal,  as  if  you  were  not 
going  to  have  any  tea  at  all.  You  must  not  even 
look  round  at  it.  Then  you  will  soon  hear  it 
spluttering  away,  mad  to  be  made  into  tea. 

It  is  a  good  plan,  too,  if  you  are  in  a  great  hurry, 
to  talk  very  loudly  to  each  other  about  how  you 
don't  need  any  tea,  and  are  not  going  to  have  any. 
You  get  near  the  kettle,  so  that  it  can  overhear 
you,  and  then  you  shout  out,  “I  don’t  want  any 
tea;  do  you,  George?”  to  which  George  shouts 
back,  “Oh,  no,  I  don’t  like  tea;  we’ll  have  lemon¬ 
ade  instead — tea’s  so  indigestible.”  Upon  which 
the  kettle  boils  over,  and  puts  the  stove  out. 

We  adopted  this  harmless  bit  of  trickery,  and 
the  result  was  that,  by  the  time  everything  else 
was  ready,  the  tea  was  waiting.  Then  we  lit  the 
lantern,  and  squatted  down  to  supper. 

We  wanted  that  supper. 

For  five  and  thirty  minutes  not  a  sound  was 
heard  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  that 
boat,  save  the  clank  of  cutlery  and  crockery,  and 
the  steady  grinding  of  four  sets  of  molars.  At 
the  end  of  five  and  thirty  minutes,  Harris  said, 
“Ah!”  and  took  his  left  leg  out  from  under  hhn 
and  put  his  right  one  there  instead. 

F»ve  minutes  afterward,  George  said,  “Ah!” 


ghvce  JXXcn  In  a  ^oat. 


146 

too,  and  threw  his  plate  out  on  the  bank;  and* 
three  minutes  later  than  that,  Montmorency  gave 
the  first  sign  of  contentment  he  had  exhibited 
since  we  had  started,  and  rolled  over  on  his  side, 
and  spread  his  legs  out;  and  then  I  said,  “Ah!” 
and  bent  my  head  back,  and  bumped  it  against 
one  of  the  hoops,  but  I  did  not  mind  h.  I  did  not 
even  swear. 

How  good  one  feels  when  one  is  full— how  sat¬ 
isfied  with  ourselves  and  with  the  world!  People 
who  have  tried  it,  tell  me  that  a  clear  conscience 
makes  you  very  happy  and  contented;  but  a  full 
stomach  does  the  business  quite  as  well,  and  is 
cheaper,  and  more  easily  obtained.  One  feels  so 
forgiving  and  generous  after  a  substantial  and 
well-digested  meal — so  noble-minded,  so  kindly- 
hearted. 

It  is  very  strange,  this  domination  of  our  in¬ 
tellect  by  our  digestive  organs.  We  cannot  work, 
we  cannot  think,  unless  our  stomachs  will  so.  It 
dictates  to  us  our  emotions,  our  passions.  x\fter 
eggs  and  bacon,  it  says,  “Work!”  After  beef¬ 
steak  and  porter  it  says,  “Sleep!”  After  a  cup  of 
tea  (two  spoonfuls  for  each  cup,  and  don't  let  it 
stand  more  than  three  minutes),  it  says  to  the 
brain,  “Now  rise,  and  show  your  strength.  Be 
eloquent,  and  deep,  and  tender;  see,  with  a  clear 
eye,  into  Nature  and  into  life;  spread  your  white 


146 


ghvcjc  pCjcn  in  a  gScrat. 


wings  of  quivering  thought,  and  soar,  a  god-like 
spirit,  over  the  whirling  world  beneath  you,  up 
through  long  lanes  of  flaming  stars  to  the  gates 
of  eternity!” 

After  hot  muffins,  it  says,  “Be  dull  and  soulless, 
like  a  beast  of  the  field — a  brainless  animal,  with 
listless  eye,  unlit  by  any  ray  of  fancy,  or  of  hope, 
of  fear,  or  love,  or  life.”  And  after  brandy,  taken 
in  sufficient  quantity,  it  says,  “Now  come,  fool, 
grin  and  tumble,  that  your  fellow-men  may  laugh 
— drivel  in  folly,  and  splutter  in  senseless  sounds, 
and  show  what  a  helpless  ninny  is  poor  man 
l  whose  wit  and  will  are  drowned,  like  kittens  side 
by  side,  in  half  an  inch  of  alcohol.” 

We  are  but  the  veriest,  sorriest  slaves  of  our 
stomach.  Reach  not  after  morality  and  right¬ 
eousness,  my  friends;  watch  vigilantly  your  stom¬ 
ach,  and  diet  it  with  care  and  judgment.  Then 
virtue  and  contentment  will  come  anc  reign  with¬ 
in  your  heart,  unsought  by  any  effort  of  your  own ; 
and  you  will  be  a  good  citizen,  a  loving  husband, 
and  a  tender  father — a  noble,  pious  man. 

Before  our  supper,  Harris  and  George  and  I 
were  quarrelsome  and  snappy  and  ill-tempered ; 
after  our  supper,  we  sat  and  beamed  on  one  an¬ 
other,  and  we  beamed  upon  the  dog,  too.  We 
loved  each  other,  we  loved  everybody.  Harris, 
in  moving  about,  trod  on  George’s  corn.  Had 


gtoeje  f$&£tx  itx  a  gjcral 


147 


this  happened  before  supper,  George  would  have 
expressed  wishes  and  desires  concerning  Harris’s 
fate  in  this  world  and  the  next  that  would  have 
made  a  thoughtful  man  shudder. 

As  it  was,  he  said:  “Steady,  old  man;  ’ware 
wheat.” 

And  Harris,  instead  of  merely  observing,  in 
his  most  unpleasant  tones,  that  a  fellow  could 
hardly  help  treading  on  some  bit  of  George’s  foot, 
if  he  had  to  move  about  at  all  within  ten  yards 
of  where  George  was  sitting,  suggesting  that 
Georg'e  never  ought  to  come  into  an  ordinary 
sized  boat  with  feet  that  length,  and  advising  him 
to  hang  them  over  the  side,  as  he  would  have 
done  before  supper,  now  said:  “Oh,  I’m  sorry, 
old  chap;  I  hope  I  haven’t  hurt  you.” 

And  George  said:  “Not  at  all;”  that  it  was  his 
fault;  and  Harris  said  no,  it  was  his. 

It  was  quite  pretty  to  hear  them. 

We  lit  our  pipes,  and  sat,  looking  out  on  the 
quiet  night,  and  talked. 

George  said  why  could  not  we  be  always  like 
this — away  from  the  world,  with  its  sin  and  temp¬ 
tation,  leading  sober,  peaceful  lives,  and  doing 
good*  I  said  it  was  the  sort  of  thing  I  had  often 
longed  for  myself;  and  we  discussed  the  possib  1- 
ity  of  our  going  away,  we  four,  to  some  handy.- 


148  Sfcvce  QXcn  in  a  gloat. 

well-fitted  desert  island,  and  living  there  in  the 

woods. 

Harris  said  that  the  danger  about  desert 
islands,  as  far  as  he  had  heard,  was  that  they  were 
so  damp;  but  George  said  no,  not  if  properly 
drained. 

And  then  we  got  on  to  drains,  and  that  put 
George  in  mind  of  a  very  funny  thing  that  hap¬ 
pened  to  his  father  once.  He  said  his  father  was 
traveling  with  another  fellow  through  Wales,  and 
one  night,  they  stopped  at  a  little  inn,  where  there 
were  some  other  fellows,  and  they  joined  the 
other  fellows,  and  spent  the  evening  with  them. 

They  had  a  very  jolly  evening,  and  sat  up  late, 
and  by  the  time  they  came  to  go  to  bed,  they 
(this  was  when  George’s  father  was  a  very  young 
man)  were  slightly  jolly  too.  They  (George’s 
father  and  George’s  father’s  friend)  were  to  sleep 
in  the  same  room,  but  in  different  beds.  They 
took  the  candle,  and  went  up.  The  candle  lurched 
up  against  the  wall  when  they  got  into  the  room, 
and  went  out,  and  they  had  to  undress  and  grope 
into  bed  in  the  dark.  This  they  did;  but,  instead 
of  getting  into  separate  beds,  as  they  thought 
they  were  doing,  they  both  climbed  into  the  .same 
one  without  knowing  it — one  getting  in  with  his 
head  at  the  top,  and  the  other  crawling  in  from 


SIxx‘cc  |Wen  iix  a  goat. 


149 


the  opposite  side  of  the  compass,  and  lying  with 
his  feet  on  the  pillow. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then 
George’s  father  said: 

“Joe!” 

“What’s  the  matter  Tom?”  replied  Joe’s  voice 
from  the  other  end  of  the  bed. 

“Why,  there’s  a  man  in  my  bed,”  said  George’s 
father;  “here’s  his  feet  on  my  pillow.” 

“Well,  it’s  an  extraordinary  thing,  Tom,”  an¬ 
swered  the  other;  “but  I’m  blest  if  there  isn’t  a 
man  in  my  bed,  too!” 

“What  are  you  going  to  do?”  asked  George’s 
father. 

“Well,  I’m  going  to  chuck  him  out,”  replied 
Joe. 

“So  am  I,”  said  George’s  father  valiantly. 

There  was  a  brief  struggle  followed  by  two 
heavy  bumps  on  the  floor,  and  then  a  rather  dole¬ 
ful  voice  said: 

“I  say,  Tom!” 

“Yes!” 

“How  have  you  got  on?” 

“Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  my  man’s  chucked 
me  out.” 

“So’s  mine !  I  say,  I  don’t  think  much  of  this 
inn,  do  you?” 

“What  was  the  name  of  that  inn?”  said  Harris. 


150 


i’hvcc  Wim  in  a  ga  at. 


“The  Pig  and  Whistle,”  said  George.  "Why# 
“Ah,  no,  then  it  isn’t  the  same,”  replied  Harris 
“What  do  yon  mean?”  queried  George. 

“Why,  it’s  so  curious,”  mummured  Harris,  “but 
precisely  that  very  same  thing  happened  to  my 
father  once  at  a  country  inn.  I’ve  often  heard  him 
tell  the  tale.  I  thought  it  might  have  been  the 
same  inn.” 

We  turned  in  at  ten  that  night,  and  I  thought 
I  should  sleep  well,  being  tired;  but  I  didn’t.  As 
a  rule,  I  undress  and  put  my  head  on  the  pillow, 
and  then  somebody  bangs  at  the  door,  and  says 
it  is  half-past  eight;  but  to-night,  everything 
seemed  against  me;  the  novelty  of  it  all,  the 
hardness  of  the  boat,  the  cramped  position  (I  was 
lying  with  my  feet  under  one  seat,  and  my  head  on 
another),  the  sound  of  the  lapping  water  round 
the  boat,  and  the  wind  among  the  branches,  kept 
me  restless,  and  disturbed. 

I  did  get  to  sleep  for  a  few  hours,  and  then 
some  part  of  the  boat  which  seemed  to  have 
grown  up  in  the  night — for  it  certainly  was  not 
there  when  we  started,  and  it  had  disappeared  by 
the  morning — kept  digging  into  my  spine.  I  slept 
through  it  for  a  while,  dreaming  that  I  had 
swallowed  a  sovereign,  and  that  they  were  cut¬ 
ting  a  hole  in  my  back  with  a  gimlet,  so  as  to  try 


gtxtteje  f$Uix  itx  a 


151 


and  get  it  out.  I  thought  it  very  unkind  of  them, 
and  I  told  them  I  would  owe  them  the  money, 
and  they  should  have  it  at  the  end  of  the  month. 
But  they  would  not  hear  of  that,  and  said  it  would 
be  much  better  if  they  had  it  then,  because  other¬ 
wise  the  interest  would  accumulate  so.  I  got 
quite  cross  with  them,  after  a  bit,  and  told  them 
what  I  thought  of  them,  and  then  they  gave  the 
gimlet  such  an  excruciating  wrench  that  I  woke 
up. 

The  boat  seemed  stuffy,  and  my  head  ached; 
so  I  thought  I  would  step  out  into  the  cool  night 
air.  I  slipped  on  what  clothes  I  could  find  about 
— some  of  my  own,  and  some  of  George’s  and 
Harris’s — and  crept  under  the  cam  as  on  to  the 
bank. 

It  was  a  glorious  night.  The  moon  had  sunk, 
and  left  the  quiet  earth  along  with  the  stars.  It 
seemed  as  if,  in  the  silence  and  the  hush,  while 
we  her  children  slept,  they  were  talking  with  her, 
their  sister — conversing  of  mighty  mysteries  in 
voices  too  vast  and  deep  for  childish  human  ears 
to  catch  the  sound. 

They  awe  us,  these  strange  stars,  so  cold,  so 
clear.  We  are  as  children  whose  small  feet  have 
strayed  into  some  dim-lit  temple  of  the  god  they 
have  been  taught  to  worship  but  know  not;  and, 
standing  where  the  echoing  dome  spans  the  long 


152 


glxxtec  gtXxn  in  a  goat. 


vista  of  the  shadowy  light,  glance  up,  half  hop¬ 
ing,  half  afraid  to  see  some  awful  vision  hovering 
there.  And  yet  it  seems  so  full  of  comfort  and  of 
strength,  the  night  In  its  great  presence,  our 
small  sorrows  creep  away,  ashamed.  The  day  has 
been  so  full  of  fret  and  care,  and  our  hearts  have 
been  so  full  of  evil  and  of  bitter  thoughts,  and  the 
world  has  seemed  so  hard  and  wrong  to  us.  Then 
Night,  like  some  great  loving  mother,  gently  lays 
her  hand  upon  our  fevered  head,  and  turns  our 
little  tear-strained  faces  up  to  hers,  and  smiles; 
and,  though  she  does  not  speak,  we  know  what 
she  would  say,  and  lay  our  hot  flushed  cheek 
against  her  bosom,  and  the  pain  is  gone. 

Sometimes,  our  pain  is  very  deep  and  real,  and 
we  stand  before  her  very  silent,  because  there  is 
no  language  for  our  pain,  only  a  moan.  Night’s 
heart  is  full  of  pity  for  us;  she  cannot  ease  our 
aching;  she  takes  our  hand  in  hers,  and  the  little 
world  grows  very  small  and  very  far  away  be¬ 
neath  us,  and,  borne  on  her  dark  wings,  we  pass 
for  a  moment  into  a  mightier  Presence  than  her 
own,  and  in  the  wondrous  light  of  that  great 
Presence,  all  human  life  lies  like  a  book  before 
us,  and  we  know  that  pain  and  sorrow  are  but  the 
angels  of  God. 

Only  those  who  have  worn  the  crown  of  suffer¬ 
ing  can  look  upon  that  wondrous  light;  and  they, 


ghrec  iVUn  in  a  goat.  153 

when  they  return,  may  not  speak  of  it,  or  tell  the 
mystery  they  know. 

Once  upon  a  time,  through  a  strange  country, 
there  rode  some  goodly  knights,  and  their  path 
lay  by  a  deep  wood,  where  tangled  briars  grew 
very  thick  and  strong,  and  tore  the  flesh  of  them 
that  lost  their  way  therein.  And  the  leaves  of 
the  trees  that  grew  in  the  wood  were  very  dark: 
and  thick,  so  that  no  ray  of  light  came  through 
the  branches  to  lighten  the  gloom  and  sadness. 

And,  as  they  passed  by  that  dark  wood,  one 
knight  of  those  that  rode,  missing  his  comrades, 
wandered  far  away,  and  returned  to  them  no 
more;  and  they,  sorely  grieving,  rode  on  without 
him,  mourning  him  as  one  dead. 

Now,  when  they  reached  the  fair  castle  toward 
which  they  had  been  journeying,  they  stayed 
there  many  days  and  made  merry ;  and  one  night, 
as  they  sat  in  cheerful  ease  around  the  logs  that 
burned  in  the  great  hall,  and  drank  a  loving  meas¬ 
ure,  there  came  the  comrade  they  had  lost,  and 
greeted  them.  His  clothes  were  ragged,  like  a 
beggar’s,  and  many  sad  wounds  were  on  his  sweet 
flesh,  but  upon  his  face  there  shone  a  great  radi¬ 
ance  of  deep  joy. 

And  they  questioned  him,  asking  him  what  had 
befallen  him;  and  he  told  them  how  in  the  dark 
wood  he  had  lost  his  way,  and  had  wandered 


154 


$1xvjCjc  en  in  a  gaat. 


many  days  and  nights,  till,  torn  and  bleeding  he 
had  lain  down  to  die. 

Then,  when  he  was  nigh  unto  death,  lo!  through 
the  savage  gloom  there  came  to  him  a  stately 
maiden,  and  took  him  by  the  hand  and  led  him 
on  through  devious  paths,  unknown  to  any  man, 
until  upon  the  darkness  of  the  wood  there  dawned 
a  light  such  as  the  light  of  day  was  unto  but  as 
a  little  lamp  unto  the  sun;  and,  in  that  wondrous 
light,  our  way  worn  knight  saw  as  in  a  dream  a 
vision  and  so  glorious,  so  fair  the  vision  seemed, 
that  of  his  bleeding  wounds  he  thought  no  more, 
but  stood  as  one  entranced,  whose  joy  is  deep  as 
is  the  sea,  whereof  no  man  can  tell  the  depth. 

And  the  vision  faded,  and  the  knight,  kneeling 
upon  the  ground,  thanked  the  good  saint  who 
into  that  sad  wood  had  strayed  his  steps,  so  he  had 
seen  the  vision  that  lay  there  hid. 

And  the  name  of  the  dark  forest  was  Sorrow; 
but  of  the  vision  that  the  good  knight  saw  therein 
we  may  not  speak  nor  tell. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

I  woke  at  six  the  next  morning;  and  found 
George  awake  too.  We  both  turned  round,  and 
'ried  to  go  to  sleep  again,  but  we  could  not  Had 


ghwec  plow  in  a  goat. 


155 


there  been  any  particular  reason  why  we  should 
not  have  gone  to  sleep  again,  but  have  got  up  and 
dressed  then  and  there,  we  should  have  dropped 
off  while  we  were  looking  at  our  watches,  and 
have  slept  till  ten.  As  there  was  no  earthly  ne¬ 
cessity  for  our  getting  up  under  another  two  hours 
at  the  very  least,  and  our  getting  up  at  that  time 
was  an  utter  absurdity,  it  was  only  in  keeping 
with  the  natural  cussedness  of  things  in  general 
that  we  should  both  feel  that  lying  down  for  five 
minutes  more  would  be  death  to  us. 

George  said  that  the  same  kind  of  thing,  only 
worse,  had  happened  to  him  some  eighteen 
months  ago, ‘when  he  was  lodging  by  himself  in 
the  house  of  a  certain  Mrs.  Gippings.  He  said 
his  watch  went  wrong  one  evening,  and  stopped 
at  a  quarter  past  eight.  He  did  not  know  this  at 
the  time  because,  for  some  reason  or  other,  he 
forgot  to  wind  it  up  when  he  went  to  bed  (an  un¬ 
usual  occurrence  with  him),  and  hung  it  up  over 
his  pillow  without  ever  looking  at  the  thing. 

It  was  in  the  winter  when  this  happened,  very 
near  the  shortest  day,  and  a  week  after  into  the 
bargain,  so  the  fact  that  it  was  still  very  dark 
when  George  woke  in  the  morning  was  no  guide 
to  him  as  to  the  time.  He  reached  up,  and  hauled 
down  his  watch.  It  was  a  quarter  past  eight. 

“Angels  and  ministers  of  grace  defend  us!”  ex- 


156 


gtojeje  |pt m  in  a  gtoat. 


claimed  George,  “and  here  have  I  got  to  be  in 
the  city  by  nine.  Why  didn’t  somebody  call  me7 
Oh,  this  is  a  shame!”  And  he  flung  the  watch 
down,  and  sprang  out  of  bed,  and  had  a  cold 
bath,  and  washed  himself,  and  dressed  himself, 
and  shaved  himself  in  cold  water  because  there 
^  was  not  time  to  wait  for  the  hot,  aid  then  rushed 
and  had  another  look  at  the  watch. 

Whether  the  shaking  it  had  received  in  being 
thrown  down  on  the  bed  had  started  it,  or  flow  it 
was,  George  could  not  say,  but  certain  it  was  that 
from  a  quarter  past  eight  it  had  begun  to  go,  and 
now  pointed  to  twenty  minutes  to  nine. 

George  snatched  it  up,  and  rushed  downstairs. 
In  the  sitting-room  all  was  dark  and  silent:  there 
was  no  fire,  no  breakfast.  George  said  it  was  a 
wicked  shame  of  Mrs.  G.,  and  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  tell  her  what  he  thought  of  her  when 
he  came  home  in  the  evening.  Then  he  dashed 
on  his  greatcoat  and  hat,  and  seizing  his  um¬ 
brella,  made  for  the  front  door.  The  door  was 
not  even  unbolted.  George  anathematized  Mrs. 
G.  for  a  lazy  old  woman,  and  thought  it  was  very 
strange  that  people  could  not  get  up  at  a  decent, 
respectable  time,  unlocked  and  unbolted  the  door, 
and  ran  out. 

He  ran  hard  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  and  at  the 
end  of  that  distance  it  began  to  be  borne  in  upon 


^Txvcjc  f*T.cit  in  a  goat. 


157 


him  as  a  strange  and  curious  thing  that  there  were 
so  few  people  about,  and  that  there  were  no  shops 
open.  It  was  certainly  a  very  dark  and  foggy 
morning,  but  still  it  seemed  an  unusual  course  to 
stop  all  business  on  that  account  He  had  to  go 
to  business:  why  should  other  people  stop  in  bed 
merely  because  it  was  dark  and  foggy! 

At  length  he  reached  Holborn.  Not  a  shutter 
was  down!  not  a  bus  was  about!  There  were 
three  men  in  sight,  one  of  whom  was  a  police¬ 
man  ;  a  market-cart  full  of  cabbages  and  a  dilapi¬ 
dated  looking  cab.  George  pulled  out  his  watch 
and  looked  at  it:  it  was  five  minutes  to  nine!  He 
stood  still  and  counted  his  pulse.  He  stooped 
down  and  felt  his  legs.  Then,  with  his  watch  still 
in  his  hand,  he.  went  up  to  the  policeman,  and 
asked  him  if  he  knew  what  the  time  was. 

“What’s  the  time?”  said  the  man,  eying  George 
up  and  down  with  evident  suspicion ;  “why,  if  you 
listen  you  will  hear  it  strike.” 

George  listened,  and  a  neighboring  clock  im¬ 
mediately  obliged. 

“But  it’s  only  gone  three!”  said  George  in  an 
injured  tone,  when  it  had  finished. 

“Well,  and  how  many  did  you  want  it  to  go?v 
replied  the  constable. 

“Why,  nine,”  said  George,  showing  his  watch. 


158 


Jgferjeje  2$Un  in  a  gjcrat. 


“Do  you  know  where  you  live?”  said  the 
guardian  of  public  order,  severely. 

George  thought,  and  gave  the  address. 

“Oh!  that’s  where  it  is,  is  it?”  replied  the  man,* 
“well,  you  take  my  advice  and  go  there  quietly, 
and  take  that  watch  of  yours  with  you;  and  don’t 
let’s  have  any  more  of  it.” 

And  George  went  home  again,  musing  as  he 
walked  along,  and  let  himself  in. 

At  first,  when  he  got  in,  he  determined  to  un¬ 
dress  and  go  to  bed  again;  but  when  he  thought 
of  the  re-dressing  and  re-washing,  and  the  hav¬ 
ing  of  another  bath,  he  determined  he  would  not, 
but  would  sit  up  and  go  to  sleep  in  the  easy-chair. 

But  he  could  not  get  to  sleep:  he  never  felt  more 
wakeful  in  his  life;  so  ue  lit  the  lamp  and  got  out 
the  chess-board,  and  played  himself  a  game  of 

chess.  But  even  that  did  not  enliven  him:  it 

• 

seemed  slow  somehow;  so  he  gave  chess  up  and 
tried  to  read.  He  did  not  seem  able  to  take  any 
sort  of  interest  in  reading  either,  so  he  put  on  his 
coat  again  and  went  out  for  a  walk. 

It  was  horribly  lonesome  and  dismal,  and  all 
the  policemen  he  met  regarded  him  with  undis¬ 
guised  suspicion,  and  turned  their  lanterns  on 
him  and  followed  him  about,  and  this  had  such 
an  effect  upon  him  at  last  that  he  began  to  feel  as 
if  he  really  had  done  something,  and  he  got  to 


glxvce  gXen  irx  a  gxrat. 


159 


slinking  down  the  by-streets  and  hiding  in  dark 
doorways  when  he  heard  the  regulation  flip-flop 
approaching. 

Of  course,  this  conduct  made  the  force  only 
more  distrustful  of  him  than  ever,  and  they  would 
come  and  rout  him  out  and  ask  him  what  he  was 
doing  there;  and  when  he  answered,  “Nothing,” 
he  had  merely  come  out  for  a  stroll  (it  was  then 
four  o’clock  in  the  morning),  they  looked  as' 
though  they  did  not  believe  him,  and  two  plain¬ 
clothes  constables  came  home  with  him  to  see  if 
he  really  did  live  where  he  had  said  he  did.  They 
saw  him  go  in  with  his  key,  and  then  they  took  up 
a  position  opposite  and  watched  the  house. 

He  thought  he  would  light  the  fire  when  he  got 
inside,  and  make  himself  some  breakfast,  iust  to 
pass  away  the  time;  but  he  did  not  seem  able  to 
handle  anything  from  a  scuttleful  of  coals  to  a 
teaspoon  without  dropping  it  or  failing  over  it, 
and  making  such  a  noise  that  he  was  in  mortal 
fear  that  it  would  wake  Mrs.  G.  up,  and  that  she 
would  think  it  was  burglars  and  open  the  window 
and  call  “Police!”  and  then  these  two  detectives 
would  rush  in  and  handcuff  him,  and  march  him 
off  to  the  police  court. 

He  was  in  a  morbidly  nervous  state  by  this 
time,  and  he  pictured  the  trial,  and  his  trying  to 
explain  the  circumstances  to  the  jury,  and  nobody 


160 


glxvjcjc  gXjcn  in  a  gjoai. 


believing  him,  and  his  being  sentenced  to  twenty 
years’  penal  servitude,  and  his  mother  dying  of  a 
broken  heart.  So  he  gave  up  trying  to  get  break¬ 
fast,  and  wrapped  himself  up  in  his  overcoat  and 
sat  in  the  easy-chair  till  Mrs.  G.  came  down  at 
half-past  seven. 

He  said  he  had  never  got  up  too  early  since 
that  morning:  it  had  been  such  a  warning  to  him. 

We  had  been  sitting  huddled  up  in  our  rugs 
while  George  had  been  telling  me  this  true  story, 
and  on  his  finishing  it  I  set  to  work  to  wake  up 
Harris  with  a  scull.  The  third  prod  did  it;  and 
he  turned  over  on  the  other  side,  and  said  he 
would  be  down  in  a  minute,  and  that  he  would 
have  his  lace-up  boots.  We  soon  let  him  know 
where  he  was,  however,  by  the  aid  of  the  hitcher, 
and  he  sat  up  suddenly,  sending  Montmorency, 
who  had  been  sleeping  the  sieep  of  the  just  right 
on  the  middle  of  his  chest,  sprawling  across  the 
boat. 

Then  we  pulled  up  the  canvas,  and  all  four  of 
us  poked  our  heads  out  over  the  off-side,  and 
looked  down  at  the  water  and  shivered.  The 
idea,  overnight,  had  been  that  we  should  get  up 
early  in  the  morning,  fling  off  our  rugs  and 
shawls,  and,  throwing  back  the  canvas,  spring 
into  the  river  with  a  joyous  shout,  and  revel  in  a 


m 


HJlxv.ec  QXcxi  xu  a  gjcrat, 

long,  delicious  swim.  Somehow,  now  the  morn¬ 
ing  had  come,  the  notion  seemed  less  tempting. 
The  water  looked  damp  and  chilly:  the  wind  felt 
cold. 

“Well,  who  s  going  to  be  first  in?”  said  Harris 
at  last. 

There  was  no  rush  for  precedence.  George 
settled  the  matter  so  far  as  he  was  concerned  by 
retiring  into  the  boat  and  pulling  on  his  socks. 
Montmorency  gave  vent  to  an  involuntary  howl, 
as  if  merely  thinking  of  the  thing  had  given  him 
the  horrors;  and  Harris  said  it  would  be  so  diffi¬ 
cult  to  get  into  the  boat  again,  and  went  back 
and  sorted  out  his  trousers. 

I  did  not  altogether  like  to  give  in,  though  I 
did  not  relish  the  plunge.  There  might  be  snags 
about,  or  weeds,  I  thought.  I  meant  to  com¬ 
promise  matters  by  going  down  to  the  edge  and 
just  throwing  the  water  over  myself;  so  I  took  a 
towel  and  crept  out  on  the  bank  and  wormed  mv 
way  along  on  to  the  branch  of  a  tree  and  dipped 
down  into  the  water. 

It  was  bitterly  cold.  The  wind  cut  like  a  knife, 
I  thought  I  would  not  throw  the  water  over  my¬ 
self  after  all.  I  would  go  back  into  the  boat  and 
dress;  and  I  turned  to  do  so,  and,  as  I  turned,  the 
silly  branch  gave  way,  and  I  and  the  towel  went 
in  together  with  a  tremendous  splash,  and  I  was 


162  gfxueje  pcm  in  a  ^jcrat. 

out  mid-stream  with  a  gallon  of  Thames  water  in¬ 
side  me  before  I  knew  what  had  happened. 

“By  Jove!  old  J.’s  gone  in,”  1  heard  Harris 
say,  as  I  come  blowing  to  the  surface.  “I  didn’t 
think  he’d  have  the  pluck  to  do  it.  Did  you?” 

“Is  it  all  right?”  sung  out  George. 

“Lovely,”  I  spluttered  back.  “You  are  duffers 
not  to  come  in.  I  wouldn’t  have  missed  this  for 
worlds.  Why  won’t  you  try  it?  It  only  wants  a 
fittle  determination.” 

But  I  could  not  persuade  them. 

X 

Rather  an  amusing  thing  happened  while 
dressing  that  morning.  I  was  very  cold  when  I 
got  back  into  the  boat,  and,  in  my  hurry  to  get 
my  shirt  on,  accidentally  jerked  it  into  the  water, 
It  made  me  awfully  wild,  especially  as  George 
burst  out  laughing.  I  could  not  see  anything  to 
laugh  at,  and  I  told  George  so,  and  he  only 
laughed  the  more.  I  never  saw  a  man  laugh  so 
much.  I  quite  lost  my  temper  with  him  at  last, 
and  I  pointed  out  to  him  what  a  drivelling  maniac 
of  an  imbecile  idiot  he  was;  but  he  only  roared 
the  louder.  And  then,  just  as  I  was  landing  the 
shirt,  I  noticed  that  it  was  not  my  shirt  at  all,  but 
George’s  which  I  had  mistaken  for  mine;  where¬ 
upon  the  humor  of  the  thing  struck  me  for  the 
first  time,  and  I  began  to  laugh.  And  the  more 
I  looked  George’s  wet  shirt  to  George,  roar- 


Qhxzz  gXcu  in  a  IStfat. 


163 


ing  with  laughter,  the  more  I  was  amused,  and  I 
laughed  so  much  that  I  had  to  let  the  shirt  fall 
back  into  the  water  again. 

“Arn’t  you — you  going  to  get  it  out?”  said 
George  between  his  shrieks. 

I  could  not  answer  him  at  all  for  awhile,  I 
was  laughing  so,  but,  at  last,  between  my  peals 
I  managed  to  jerk  out: 

“It  isn’t  my  shirt — its  yours!” 

I  never  saw  a  man’s  face  change  from  lively  to 
severe  so  suddenly  in  all  my  life  before. 

“What!”  he  yelled,  springing  up.  “You  silly 
cuckoo!  Why  can’t  you  be  more  careful  what 
you’re  doing?  Why  the  deuce  don’t  you  go  and 
dress  on  the  bank?  You’re  not  fit  to  be  in  a  boat, 
you’re  not.  Gimme  the  hitcher.” 

I  tried  to  make  him  see  die  fun  of  the  thing,  but 
he  could  not.  Georgs  is  very  dense  at  seeing  a 
joke  sometimes. 

Harris  proposed  that  we  should  have  scrambled 
eggs  for  breakfast.  He  said  he  would  cook  them. 
It  seemed,  from  his  account,  that  he  was  very 
good  at  doing  scrambled  eggs.  He  often  did 
them  at  picnics  and  when  out  on  yachts.  He  was 
quite  famous  for  them.  People  who  had  once 
tasted  his  scrambled  eggs,  so  we  gathered  from 
his  conversation,  never  cared  for  any  other  food 


164 


£hvce  gtXcu  in  a  |8jo&t. 

afterward,  but  pined  away  and  died  when  they 
could  not  get  them. 

It  made  our  mouths  water  to  hear  him  talk 
about  the  things,  and  we  handed  him  out  the 
stove  and  the  frying-pan  and  all  the  eggs  that  had 
not  smashed  and  gone  over  everything  in  the 
hamper,  and  begged  him  to  begin. 

He  had  some  trouble  in  breaking  the  eggs — ■ 
or  rather  not  so  much  trouble  in  breaking  them 
exactly  as  in  getting  them  into  the  frying-pan 
when  broken,  and  keeping  them  off  his  trousers, 
and  preventing  them  from  running  up  his  sleeves, 
but  he  fixed  some  half  a  dozen  into  the  pan  at 
last,  and  then  squatted  down  by  the  side  of  the 
stove  and  chivied  them  about  with  a  fork. 

It  seemed  harassing  work,  so  far  as  George  and 
I  could  judge.  Whenever  he  went  near  the  pan 
he  burned  himself,  and  then  he  would  drop  every¬ 
thing  and  dance  round  the  stove,  flicking  his 
fingers  about  and  cursing  the  things.  Indeed, 
every  time  George  and  I  looked  round  at  him  he 
was  sure  to  be  performing  this  feat.  We  thought 
at  first  that  it  was  a  necessary  part  of  the  culinary 
arrangements. 

We  did  not  know  what  scrambled  eggs  were, 
and  we  fancied  that  it  must  be  some  Red  Indian 
or  Sandwich  Islands  sort  of  dish  that  required 
dances  and  incantations  for  its  proper  cooking. 


glivjcje  in  a  ^Sicrat. 


165 


Montmorency  went  and  put  his  nose  over  it  once, 
and  the  fat  spluttered  up  and  scalded  him,  and 
then  he  began  dancing  and  cursing.  Altogether 
it  was  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  exciting 
operations  I  have  ever  witnessed.  George  and  I 
were  both  quite  sorry  when  it  was  over. 

The  result  was  not  altogether  the  success  that 
Harris  had  anticipated.  There  seemed  so  little 
to  show  for  the  business.  Six  eggs  had  gone  into 
the  frying-pan,  and  all  that  came  out  was  a  tea¬ 
spoonful  of  burnt  ard  unappetizing  looking  mess. 

Harris  said  it  was  the  fault  of  the  frying-pan, 
and  thought  it  would  have  gone  better  if  we  had 
had  a  fish-kettle  and  gas-stove;  and  we  decided 
not  to  attempt  the  dish  again  until  we  had  those 
aids  to  housekeeping  by  us. 

The  -  sun  had  got  more  powerful  by  the  time 
we  had  finished  breakfast,  and  the  wind  had 
dropped,  and  it  was  as  lovely  a  morning  as  one 
could  desire.  Little  was  in  sight  to  remind  us 
of  the  nineteenth  centuryj  and  as  we  looked  out 
upon  the  river  in  the  morning  sunlight,  we  could 
almost  fancy  that  the  centuries  between  us  and 
that  ever-to-be-famous  June  morning  of  1215  had 
been  drawn  aside,  and  that  we,  English  yeomen’s 
sons  in  homespun  cloth,  with  dirk  at  belt,  were 
waiting  there  to  witness  the  writing  of  that  stu¬ 
pendous  page  of  h ;story,  the  meaning  whereof 


106 


Puree  Wien  in  a  goat. 


was  to  be  translated  to  the  common  people  some 
four  hundred  and  odd  years  later  by  one  Oliver 
Cromwell,  who  had  deeply  studied  it 

It  is  a  fine  summer  morning — sunny,  soft,  and 
still.  But  through  the  air  there  runs  a  thrill  of 
coming  stir.  King  John  has  slept  at  Duncroft 
Hall,  and  all  the  day  before  the  little  town  of 
Staines  has  echoed  to  the  clang  of  armed  men, 
and  the  clatter  of  great  horses  over  its  rough 
stones,  and  the  shouts  of  captains,  and  the  grim 
oaths  and  surly  jests  of  bearded  bowmen,  bill- 
men,  pikemen,  and  strange-speaking  foreign 
spearmen. 

Gay-cloaked  companies  of  knights  and  squires 
have  ridden  in,  all  travel-stained  and  dusty.  And 
all  the  evening  long  the  timid  townsmen’s  doors 
have  had  to  be  quick  opened  to  let  in  rough 
groups  of  soldiers,  for  whom  there  must  be  found 
both  board  and  lodging,  and  the  best  of  both,  or 
woe  betide  the  house  and  all  within,  for  the  sword 
is  judge  and  jury,  plaintiff  and  executioner,  in 
these  tempestuous  times,  and  pays  for  what  it 
takes  by  sparing  those  from  whom  it  takes  it,  if 
it  pleases  it  to  do  so. 

Round  the  camp-fire  in  the  market-place  gather 
still  more  of  the  Baron’s  troops,  and  eat  and  drink 
deep,  and  bellow  forth  roystering  drinking  songs, 
and  gamble  and  quarrel  as  the  evening  grows  and 


ghvcc  |&jcu  in  a  ^oat. 


167 


deepens  into  night.  The  firelight  sheds  quaint 
shadows  on  their  piled-up  arms  and  on  their  un¬ 
couth  forms.  The  children  of  the  town  steal  round 
to  watch  them,  wondering;  and  brawny  country 
wenches,  laughing,  draw  near  to  bandy  ale-house 
jest  and  jibe  with  the  swaggering  troopers,  so 
unlike  the  village  swains,  who,  now  despised, 
stand  apart  behind,  with  vacant  grins  upon  their 
broad,  peering  faces.  And  out  from  the  fields 
around,  glitter  the  faint  lights  of  more  distant 
camps,  as  here  some  great  lord’s  followers  lie 
mustered,  and  there  false  John’s  French  mer¬ 
cenaries  hover  like  crouching  wolves  without  the 
town. 

And  so,  with  sentinel  in  each  dark  street,  and 
twinkling  watch-fires  on  each  height  around,  the 
night  has  worn  away,  and  over  this  fair  valley 
of  old  Thames  has  broken  the  morning  of  the 
great  day  that  is  to  close  so  big  with  the  fate  of 
ages  yet  unborn. 

Ever  since  gray  dawn,  in  the  lower  of  the 
two  islands,  just  above  where  we  are  standing, 
there  has  been  great  clamor,  and  the  sound  of 
many  workmen.  The  great  pavilion  brought 
there  yester  eve  is  being  raised,  and  carpenters 
are  busy  nailing  tiers  of  seats,  while  ’prentices 
from  London  town  are  there  with  many-coWed 
stuffs  and  silks  and  cloth  of  gold  and  silver. 


168 


gtoe#  fputx  in  a 


And  now,  lo!  down  upon  the  road  that  winds 
along  the  river’s  bank  from  Staines  there  come 
toward  us,  laughing  and  talking  together  in  deep 
guttural  bass,  a  half  a  score  of  stalwart  halbert- 
men — Baron’s  men,  these — and  halt  at  a  hundred 
yards  or  so  above  us,  on  the  other  bank,  and  lean 
upon  their  arms,  and  wait. 

And  so,  from  hour  to  hour,  march  up  along 
the  road  ever  fresh  groups  and  bands  of  armed 
men,  their  casques  and  breastplates  flashing  back 
the  long  low  lines  of  morning  sunlight,  until,  as 
far  as  eye  can  reach,  the  way  seems  thick  with 
glittering  steel  and  prancing  steeds.  And  shout¬ 
ing  horsemen  are  galloping  from  group  to  group, 
and  little  banners  are  fluttering  lazily  in  the  warm 
breeze,  and  every  now  and  then  there  is  a  deeper 
stir  as  the  ranks  make  way  on  either  side,  and 
some  great  Baron  on  his  war-horse,  with  his  guard 
of  squires  around  him,  passes  along  to  take  his 
station  at  the  head  of  his  serfs  and  vassals. 

And  up  the  slope  of  Cooper’s  Hill,  just  opposite, 
are  gathered  the  wondering  rustics  and  curious 
townsfolk,  who  have  run  from  Staines,  and  none 
are  quite  sure  what  the  bustle  is  about,  but  each 
one  has  a  different  version  of  the  great  event  that 
they  have  come  to  see;  and  some  say  that  much 
good  to  all  the  people  will  come  from  this  day’s 


3.- five  c  pCcti  in  a  gcrat.  169 

work!  Blit  the  old  men  shake  their  heads,  for 
they  have  heard  such  tales  before. 

And  all  the  river  down  to  Staines  is  dotted  with 
small  craft  and  boats  and  tiny  coracles — which 
last  are  growing  out  of  favor  now,  and  are  used 
only  by  the  poorer  folk.  Over  the  rapids,  where 
in  after  years  trim  Bell  Weir  lock  will  stand,  they 
have  been  forced  or  dragged  by  their  sturdy 
rowers,  and  now  are  crowding  up  as  near  as  they 
dare  come  to  the  great  covered  barges,  which  lie 
in  readiness  to  bear  King  John  to  where  the  fate¬ 
ful  Charter  waits  his  signing. 

It  is  noon,  and  we  and  all  the  people  have  been 
waiting  patient  for  many  an  hour,  and  the  rumor 
has  run  round  that  slippery  John  has  again 
escaped  from  the  Barons’  grasp,  and  has  stolen 
away  from  Duncroft  Hall  with  his  mercenaries 
at  his  heels,  and  will  soon  be  doing  other  work 
than  signing  charters  for  his  people’s  liberty. 

Not  so!  This  time  the  grip  upon  him  has  been 
one  of  iron,  and  he  has  slid  and  wriggled  in  vain. 
Far  down  the  road  a  little  cloud  of  dust  has  risen, 
and  draws  nearer  and  grows  larger,  and  the  pat¬ 
tering  of  many  hoofs  grows  louder,  and  in  and 
out  between  the  scattered  groups  of  drawn-up 
men,  there  pushes  on  its  way  a  brilliant  cavalcade 
of  gay-dressed  lords  and  knights.  And  front  and 


170 


S&cn  in  a  Igxrai. 


rear,  and  either  flank,  there  ride  the  yeomen  of 
the  Barons,  and  in  the  midst  King  John. 

He  rides  to  where  the  barges  lie  in  readiness, 
and  the  great  Barons  step  from  their  ranks  to 
meet  him.  He  greets  them  with  a  smile  and 
laugh,  and  pleasant  honeyed  words,  as  though 
it  were  some  feast  in  his  honor  to  which  he  had 
been  invited.  But  as  he  rises  to  dismount,  he 
casts  one  hurried  glance  from  his  own  French 
mercenaries  drawn  up  in  the  rear  to  the  grim 
ranks  of  the  Barons’  men  that  hem  him  in. 

Is  it  too  late?  One  fierce  blow  at  the  unsus¬ 
pecting  horseman  at  his  side,  one  cry  to  his 
French  troops,  one  desperate  charge  upon  the  un¬ 
ready  lines  before  him,  and  these  rebellious  Barons 
might  rue  the  day  they  dared  to  thwart  his  plans! 
A  bolder  hand  might  have  turned  the  game  even 
at  that  point.  Had  it  been  a  Richard  there!  the 
cup  of  liberty  might  have  been  dashed  from  Eng¬ 
land’s  lips,  and  the  taste  of  freedom  held  back 
for  a  hundred  years. 

But  the  heart  of  King  John  sinks  before  the 
stern  faces  of  the  English  fighting  men,  and  the 
arm  of  King  John  drops  back  on  to  his  rein,  and 
he  dismounts  and  takes  his  seat  in  the  foremost 
barge.  And  the  Barons  follow  in,  with  each 
mailed  hand  upon  the  sword-hilt,  and  the  word  is 
given  to  let  go. 


S&xtjcjc  fptjew  in  a  goat. 


171 


Slowly  the  heavy,  bright-decked  barges  leave 
the  shore  of  Runnymede.  Slowly  against  the 
swift  current  they  work  their  ponderous  way,  till, 
with  a  low  grumble,  they  grate  against  the  bank 
of  the  little  island  tiiat  from  this  day  will  bear 
the  name  of  Magna  Charta  Island.  And  King 
jehn  has  stepped  upon  the  shore,  and  we  wait  in 
breathless  silence  till  a  great  shout  cleaves  the  air, 
and  the  great  corner-stone  in  England's  temple 
of  liberty  has,  now  we  know,  been  firmly  laid. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

I  was  sitting  on  the  bank,  conjuring  up  this 
scene  to  myself,  when  George  remarked  that 
when  I  was  quite  rested,  perhaps  I  would  not 
mind  helping  to  wash  up;  and,  thus  recalled  from 
the  days  of  the  glorious  past  to  the  prosaic  pres¬ 
ent,  with  all  its  misery  and  sin,  I  slid  down  into 
the  boat  and  cleaned  out  the  frying-pan  with  a 
stick  of  wood  and  a  tuft  of  grass,  polishing  it  up 
final!/  with  George’s  wet  shirt 

We  went  over  to  Magna  Charta  Island,  and 
had  a  look  at  the  stone  which  stands  in  the  cot¬ 
tage  there  and  on  which  the  great  Charter  is 
said  to  have  been  signed;  though,  as  to  whether 


172 


^ftvjcc  pjcti  in  a  g&jcrai 


it  really  was  signed  there,  or,  as  some  say,  on  the 
other  bank  at  “Runnymede,”  I  decline  to  com¬ 
mit  myself.  As  far  as  my  own  personal  opinion 
goes,  however,  I  am  inclined  to  give  weight  to 
the  popular  island  theory. 

Certainly,  had  I  been  one  of  the  Barons,  at 
the  time,  I  should  have  strongly  urged  upon  my 
comrades  the  advisability  of  our  getting  such  a 
slippery  customer  as  King  John  on  to  the  island, 
where  there  was  less  chance  of  surprises  and 
tricks. 

There  are  the  ruins  of  an  old  priory  in  the 
grounds  of  Ankerwyke  House,  which  is  close  to 
Picnic  Point,  and  it  was  round  about  the  grounds 
of  this  old  priory  that  Henry  VI II.  is  said  to 
have  waited  for  and  met  Anne  Boleyn.  He  . also 
used  to  meet  her  at  Hever  Castle  in  Kent,  and 
also  somewhere  near  St.  Albans.  It  must  have 
been  difficult  for  the  people  of  England  in  those 
days  to  have  found  a  spot  where  these  thought¬ 
less  young-  folk  were  not  spooning. 

Have  you  ever  been  in  a  house  wnere  there 
are  a  couple  courting?  It  is  most  trying.  You 
think  you  will  go  and  sit  in  the  draw:ng-room, 
and  you  march  off  there.  As  you  open  the  door, 
you  hear  a  noise  as  if  somebody  had  suddenly 
recollected  something,  and,  when  you  get  in, 
Emily  is  over  by  the  window,  full  of  interest  in 


fpun  in  a 


173 


the  opposite  side  of  the  road,  and  your  friend, 
John  Edward,  is  at  the  other  end  of  the  room 
with  his  whole  soul  held  in  thrall  by  photographs 
of  other  people’s  relatives. 

“Oh!”  you  say,  pausing  at  the.  door,  “I  didn’t 
know  anybody  was  here.” 

“Oh!  didn’t  you?”  says  Emily,  coldly,  in  a  tone 
which  implies  that  she  does  not  believe  you. 

You  hang  about  for  a  bit,  then  you  say: 

“It’s  very  dark.  Why  don’t  you  light  the  gas?’’ 

John  Edward  says,  “Oh!”  he  hadn’t  noticed  it; 
and  Emily  says  that  papa  does  not  like  the  gas 
lit  in  the  afternoon. 

You  tell  them  one  or  two  items  of  news,  and 
give  them  your  views  and  opinions  on  the  Irish 
question;  but  this  does  not  appear  to  interest 
them.  All  they  remark  on  any  subject  is  “Oh!” 
“Is  it?”  “Did  he?”  “Yes,”  and  “You  don’t  say 
so !”  And,  after  ten  minutes  of  such  style  of  con¬ 
versation,  you  edge  up  to  the  door,  and  slip  out, 
and  are  surprised  to  find  that  the  door  imme¬ 
diately  closes  behind  you,  and  shuts  itself  without 
your  having  touched  it. 

Half  an  hour  later,  you  think  you  will  try  a 
pipe  in  the  conservatory.  The  only  chair  in  the 
place  is  occupied  by  Emily;  and  John  Edward, 
if  the  language  of  clothes  can  be  relied  upon,  has 
evidently  been  sitting  on  the  floor.  They  do  not 


174 


gtxvjcje  2Vlcn  in  a  goat. 


speak,  but  they  give  you  a  look  that  says  all  that 
can  be  said  in  a  civilized  community;  and  you 
back  out  promptly  and  shut  the  door  behind  you. 

You  are  afraid  to  poke  your  nose  into  any 
room  in  the  house  now;  so,  after  walking  up  and 
down  the  stairs  for  a  while,  you  go  and  sit  in  your 
own  bedroom.  This  becomes  uninteresting, 
however,  after  a  time,  and  so  you  put  on  your 
hat  and  stroll  out  into  the  garden.  You  walk 
down  the  path,  and  as  you  pass  the  summer¬ 
house  you  glance  in,  and  there  are  those  two 
young  idiots,  huddled  up  into  one  corner  of  it; 
and  they  see  you,  and  are  evidently  under  the 
idea,  that  for  some  wicked  purpose  of  your  own, 
you  are  following  them  about. 

“Why  don’t  tney  have  a  special  room  for  this 
sort  of  thing,  and  make  people  keep  to  it?”  you 
mutter,  and  you  rush  back  to  the  hall  and  get 
your  umbrella  and  go  out. 

It  must  have  been  much  like  this  when  that 
foolish  boy  Henry  VIII.  was  courting  his  little 
Anne.  People  in  Buckinghamshire  would  have 
come  upon  them  unexpectedly  when  they  were 
mooning  round  Windsor  and  Wravsbury,  and 
have  exclaimed,  “Oh!  you  here!”  and  Henry 
would  have  blushed  and  said,  “Yes;  he’d  just 
come  over  to  see  a  man;”  and  Anne  would  have 
said,  “Oh,  I’m  so  glad  to  see  you!  Isn’t  it  funny! 


ghvjte  UXjctt  in  a  ^xsrat. 


175 


Pve  just  met  Mr,  Henry  VIII.,  in  the  lane,  and 
he’s  going  the  same  way  I  am.” 

Then  those  people  would  have  gone  away  and 
said  to  themselves:  “Oh!  we’d  better  get  out  of 
here  while  this  billing  and  cooing  is  on.  Well 
go  down  to  Kent.” 

And  they  would  go  to  Kent,  and  the  first  thing 
they  would  see  in  Kent,  when  they  got  there, 
would  be  Henry  and  Anne  fooling  round  Hever 
Castle. 

“Oh,  drat  this!”  they  would  have  said.  “Here, 
let’s  go  away.  I  can’t  stand  any  more  of  it.  Let’s 
go  to  St.  Albans — nice  quiet  place,  St.  Albans.” 

And  when  they  reached  St.  /Ubans,  there  would 
be  that  wretched  couple,  kissing  under  the 
Abbey  walls.  Then  these  folks  wrould  go  and  be 
pirates  until  the  marriage  was  over. 

From  Picnic  Point  to  Old  Windsor  Lock  is  a 
delightful  bit  of  the  river.  A  shady  road,  dotted 
here  and  there  with  dainty  little  cottages,  runs 
by  the  bank  up  to  the  “Bells  of  Ouseley,”  a  pic¬ 
turesque  inn,  as  most  up-river  inns  are,  and  a 
place  where  a  very  good  glass  of  ale  may  be 
drunk — so  Harris  says;  and  on  a  matter  of  this 
kind  you  can  take  Harris’s  word.  Old  Windsor 
is  a  famous  spot  in  its  way.  Edward  the  Con¬ 
fessor  had  a  palace  here,  and  here  the  great  Earl 
Godwin  was  proved  guilty  by  the  justice  of  that 


176 


■I'hxcjc  gXctt  in  a  gnat. 


age  of  having  encompassed  the  death  of  the 
King’s  brother.  Earl  Godwin  broke  a  piece  of 
bread  and  held  it  in  his  hand. 

“If  I  am  guilty,”  said  the  Earl,  “may  this  bread 
choke  me  when  I  eat  it!” 

Then  he  put  the  bread  into  his  mouth  and 
swallowed  it,  and  it  choked  him,  and  he  died. 

After  you  pass  Old  Windsor,  the  river  is  some¬ 
what  uninteresting,  and  does  not  become  itself 
again  until  you  are  nearing  Boveney.  George 
and  I  towed  up  past  the  Home  Park,  which 
stretches  along  the  right  bank  from  Albert  to 
Victoria  Bridge;  and  as  we  were  passing  Datchet, 
George  asked  me  if  I  remembered  our  first  trip 
up  the  river,  and  when  we  landed  at  Datchet  at 
ten  o’clock  at  night,  and  wanted  to  go  to  bed. 

I  answered  that  I  did  remember  it.  It  will  be 
some  time  before  I  forget  it. 

It  was  the  Saturday  before  the  August  Bank 
Holiday.  We  were  tired  and  hungry,  we  same 
three,  and  when  we  got  to  Datchet  we  took  out 
the  hamper,  the  two  bags,  and  the  rugs  and  coats, 
and  such  like  things,  and  started  of!  to  look  for 
diggings.  We  passed  a  very  pretty  little  hotel, 
with  clematis  and  creeper  over  the  porch;  but 
there  was  no  honeysuckle  about  it,  and  I  said: 

“Oh,  don’t  let’s  go  in  there!  Let’s  go  on  a  bit 


3^ !x vex  iJXnt  in  a  goat. 


177 


further,  and  see  if  there  isn’t  one  with  honey¬ 
suckle  over  it.” 

So  we  went  on  till  we  came  to  another  hotel. 
That  was  a  very  nice  hotel,  too,  and  it  had  honey¬ 
suckle  on  it  round  at  the  side;  but  Harris  did  not 
like  the  look  of  a  man  who  was  leaning  against 
the  front  door.  He  said  he  didn’t  look  a  nice 
man  at  all,  and  he  wore  ugly  boots:  so  we  went 
on  further.  We  went  a  goodish  way  without 
coming  across  any  more  hotels,  and  then  we  met 
a  man,  and  asked  him  to  direct  us  to  a  few. 

He  said: 

“Why,  you  are  coming  away  from  them.  You 
must  turn  right  round  and  go  back,  and  then  you 
will  come  to  the  Stag.” 

We  said: 

“Oh,  we  had  been  there,  and  didn’t  like  it — no 
honeysuckle  over  it.” 

“Well,  then,”  he  said,  “there’s  the  Manor 
House,  just  opposite.  Have  you  tried  that?” 

Harris  replied  that  we  did  not  want  to  go 
there — didn’t  like  the  looks  of  a  man  who  was 
stopping  there — Harris  did  not  like  the  color  of 
his  hair,  didn’t  like  his  boots,  either. 

“Well,  I  don’t  know  what  you'll  do,  I'm  sure,” 
said  our  informant;  “because  they  are  the  only 
two  inns  in  the  place.” 

“No  other  inns!”  exclaimed  Harris. 


178 


Jgfejcs  |&ctt  in  a  gxrat. 


“None,”  replied  the  man. 

“What  on  earth  are  we  to  do?”  cried  Harris. 

Then  George  spoke  up.  He  said  Harris  and 
I  could  get  an  hotel  built  for  us,  if  we  liked,  and 
have  some  people  made  to  put  in.  For  his  part, 
he  was  going  back  to  the  Stag. 

The  greatest  minds  never  realize  their  ideals 
in  any  matter;  and  Harris  and  I  sighed  over  the 
hollowness  of  all  earthly  desires,  and  followed 
George. 

We  took  our  traps  into  the  Stag,  and  laid  them 
down  in  the  hall. 

The  landlord  came  up  and  said : 

“Good  evening,  gentlemen.” 

“Oh,  good  evening,”  said  George;  “we  want 
three  beds,  please.” 

“Very  sorry,  sir,  said  the  landlord;  “but  Pm 
afraid  we  can’t  manage  it.” 

“Oh,  well,  never  mind,”  said  George,  “two  will 
do.  Two  of  us  can  sleep  in  one  bed,  can’t  we?” 
he  continued,  turning  to  Harris  and  me. 

Harris  said,  “Oh,  yes;”  he  thought  George  and 
I  could  sleep  in  one  bed  very  easily. 

“Very  sorry,  sir,”  again  repeated  the  landlord  ; 
“but  we  really  haven’t  got  a  bed  vacant  in  the 
whole  house.  In  fact,  we  are  putting  two,  and 
even  three  gentlemen  in  one  bed,  as  it  is.” 

This  staggered  us  for  a  bit. 


gfeueje  in  a  goat. 


179 


But  Harris,  who  is  an  old  traveller,  rose  to  the 
occasion,  and,  laughing  cheerily,  said: 

“Oh,  well,  we  can't  help  it.  We  must  rough  it. 
You  must  give  us  a  shake-down  in  the  billiard 
room.” 

“Very  sorry,  sir.  Three  gentlemen  sleeping  on 
the  billiard  table  already,  and  two  in  the  coffee- 
room.  Can’t  possibly  take  you  in  to-night.” 

We  picked  up  our  things,  dnd  went  over  to  the 
Manor  House.  It  was  a  pretty  little  place.  I 
said  I  thought  I  should  like  it  better  than  the 
other  house;  and  Harris  said,  “Oh,  yes,”  it  would 
be  all  right,  and  we  needn’t  look  at  the  man  with 
the  red  hair;  besides,  the  poor  fellow  couldn’t 
help  having  red  hair. 

Harris  spoke  quite  kindly  and  sensibly  about  it. 

The  people  at  the  Manor  House  did  not  wait 
to  hear  us  talk.  The  landlady  met  us  on  the 
doorstep  with  the  greeting  that  we  were  the  four¬ 
teenth  party  she  had  turned  away  within  the  last 
hour  and  a  half.  As  for  our  meek  suggestions 
of  stables,  billiard-room,  or  coal-cellars,  she 
laughed  them  all  to  scorn;  all  these  nooks  had 
been  snatched  up  long  ago. 

Did  she  know  of  any  place  in  the  whole  village 
where  we  could  get  shelter  for  the  night? 

“Well,  if  we  didn’t  mind  roughing  it — she  did 


180 


ghxzt  gXm  in  a  gtoat. 


not  recommend  it,  mind — but  there  was  a  little 
beer  shop  half  a  mile  down  the  Eton -road — ” 

We  waited  to  hear  no  more;  we  caught  up  the 
hamper  and  the  bags,  and  the  coats  and  rugs,  and 
parcels,  and  ran.  The  distance  seemed  more  like 
a  mile  than  half  a  mile,  but  we  reached  the  place 
at  last,  and  rushed,  panting,  into  the  bar. 

The  people  at  the  beer  shop  were  rude.  They 
merely  laughed  at  us.  There  were  only  three 
beds  in  the  whole  house,  and  they  had  seven  sin¬ 
gle  gentlemen  and  two  married  couples  sleeping 
there  already.  A  kind-hearted  bargeman,  how¬ 
ever,  who  happened  to  be  in  the  tap-room, 
thought  we  might  try  the  grocer’s,  next  door  to 
the  Stag,  and  we  went  back. 

The  grocer’s  was  full.  An  old  woman  we  met 
in  the  shop  then  kindly  took  us  along  with  her  for 
a  quarter  of  a  mile,  to  a  lady  friend  of  hers,  who 
occasionally  let  rooms  to  gentlemen. 

This  old  woman  walked  very  slowly,  and  we 
were  twenty  minutes  getting  to  her  lady  friend’s. 
She  enlivened  the  journey  by  describing  to  us  as 
we  trailed  along,  the  various  pains  she  had  in  her 
back. 

Her  lady  friend’s  rooms  were  let.  From  there 
we  were  recommended  to  No.  27.  No.  27  was 
full,  and  sent  us  to  No.  32,  and  32  was  full 

Then  we  went  back  into  the  highroad,  and 


3Jhv cc  ptcu  in  a  goat. 


181 


Harris  sat  down  on  the  hamper  and  said  he  would 
go  no  further.  He  said  it  seemed  a  quiet  spot, 
and  he  would  like  to  die  there.  He  requested 
George  and  me  to  kiss  his  mother  for  him,  and 
to  tell  all  his  relations  that  he  forgave  them  and 
died  happy. 

At  that  moment  an  angel  came  by  in  the  dis¬ 
guise  of  a  small  boy  (and  I  cannot  think  of  any 
more  effective  disguise  an  angel  could  have  as¬ 
sumed),  with  a  can  of  beer  in  one  hand,  and  in 
the  other  something  at  the  end  of  a  string,  wh'ch 
he  let  down  on  to  every  flat  stone  he  came  across, 
and  then  pulled  up  again,  this  producing  a  pecu¬ 
liarly  unattractive  sound,  suggestive  of  suffering. 

We  asked  this  heavenly  messenger  (as  we  dis¬ 
covered  him  afterward  to  be)  if  he  knew  of  any 
lonely  house,  whose  occupants  were  few  and  fee¬ 
ble  (old  ladies  or  paralyzed  gentlemen  preferred), 
who  could  be  easily  frightened  into  giving  up 
their  beds  for  the  night  to  three  desperate  men; 
or,  if  not  this,  could  he  recommend  us  to  an 
empty  pig-sty,  or  a  disused  limekiln,  or  anything 
of  that  sort.  He  did  not  know  of  any  such  place 
— at  least,  not  one  handy;  but  he  said  that,  if  we 
liked  to  come  with  him,  his  mother  had  a  room 
to  spare,  and  could  put  us  up  for  the  night. 

We  fell  upon  his  neck  there  in  the  moonlight 
and  blessed  him,  and  it  would  have  made  a  very 


182 


glxttce  f&jctx  in  a  goat. 


beautiful  picture  if  the  boy  himself  had  not  been 
so  overpowered  by  our  emotion  as  to  be  unable 
to  sustain  himself  under  it,  and  sunk  to  the 
ground,  letting  us  all  down  on  top  of  him.  Har¬ 
ris  was  so  overcome  with  joy  that  he  fainted,  and 
had  to  seize  the  boy’s  beer-can  and  half  empty  it 
before  he  could  recover  consciousness,  and  then 
he  started  off  at  a  run,  and  left  George  and  me  to 
bring  on  the  luggage. 

It  was  a  little  four-roomed  cottage  where  the 
boy  lived,  and  his  mother — good  soul! — gave  us 
hot  bacon  for  supper,  and  we  ate  it  all — five 
pounds — and  a  jam  tart  afterward,  and  two  pots 
of  tea,  and  then  we  went  to  bed.  There  were 
two  beds  in  the  room ;  one  was  a  2ft.  6in.  truckle 
bed,  and  George  and  I  slept  in  that,  and  I  kept 
in  by  tying  ourselves  together  with  a  sheet;  and 
the  other  was  the  little  boy’s  bed,  and  Harris  had 
that  all  to  himself,  and  we  found  him,  in  the  morn¬ 
ing,  with  two  feet  of  bare  leg  sticking  out  at  the 
bottom,  and  George  and  I  used  it  to  hang  the 
towels  on  while  we  bathed. 

We  were  not  so  uppish  about  what  sort  of  hotel 
we  would  have,  next  time  we  went  to  Datchet, 

To  return  to  our  present  trip:  nothing  exciting 
happened ;  we  tugged  steadily  on  to  a  little  below 
Monkey  Island,  where  we  drew7  up  and  lunched. 
We  tackled  the  cold  beef  for  lunch,  and  then  we 


Slrn'c  2$Xjcu  in  a  idcmt. 


183 


found  that  we  had  forgotten  to  bring  any  mus¬ 
tard.  I  don’t  think  I  ever  in  my  life,  before  or 
since,  felt  I  wanted  mustard  as  badly  as  I  felt  I 
wanted  it  then.  I  don’t  care  for  mustard  as  a 
rule,  and  it  is  very  seldom  that  I  take  it  at  all, 
and  I  would  have  given  worlds  for  it  then. 

I  don’t  know  how  many  worlds  there  may  be  in 
the  universe,  but  any  one  who  had  brought  me  a 
spoonful  of  mustard  at  that  precise  moment  could 
have  had  them  all.  I  grow  reckless  like  that 
when  I  want  a  thing  and  can’t  get  it. 

Harris  said  he  would  have  given  worlds  for 
mustard  too.  It  would  have  been  a  good  thing 
for  anybody  who  had  come  up  to  that  spot  with 
a  can  of  mustard  then;  he  would  have  been  set 
up  in  worlds  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 

But  there!  I  dare  say  both  Harris  and  I  would 
have  tried  to  back  out  of  the  bargain  after  we 
had  got  the  mustard.  One  makes  these  extrav¬ 
agant  offers  in  moments  of  excitement,  but,  of 
course,  when  one  comes  to  think  of  it,  one  sees 
how  absurdly  out  of  proportion  they  are  with  the 
value  of  the  required  article.  I  heard  a  man, 
going  up  a  mountain  in  Switzerland,  once  say 
he  would  give  worlds  for  a  glass  of  beer,  and, 
when  he  came  to  a  little  shanty  where  they  kept 
it,  he  kicked  up  a  most  fearful  row  because  they 
charged  him  five  francs  for  a  bottle  of  Bass.  He 


ghvce  3*%cix  in  a  gloat. 


said  it  was  a  scandalous  imposition,  and  he  wrote 
to  the  Times  about  it. 

It  cast  a  gloom  over  the  boat,  there  being  no 
mustard.  We  ate  our  beef  in  silence.  Existence 
seemed  hollow  and  uninteresting.  We  thought  of 
the  happy  days  of  childhood,  and  sighed.  We 
brightened  up  a  bit,  however,  over  the  apple-tart, 
and  when  George  drew  out  a  tin  of  p:ne-app!e 
from  the  bottom  of  the  hamper,  and  rolled  it  into 
the  middle  of  the  boat,  we  felt  that  life  was  worth 
living  after  all. 

We  are  very  fond  of  pine-apple,  all  three  of  us. 
He  looked  at  the  picture  on  the  tin;  we  thought 
of  the  juice.  We  smiled  at  one  another,  and  Har¬ 
ris  got  a  spoon  ready. 

Then  we  looked  for  the  knife  to  open  the  tin 
with.  We  turned  out  everything  in  the  hamper. 
We  turned  out  the  bags.  We  pulled  up  the 
boards  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  We  took  every¬ 
thing  out  on  to  the  bank  and  shook  it.  There 
was  no  tin-opener  to  be  found. 

Then  Harris  tried  to  open  the  tin  with  a 
pocket-knife,  and  broke  the  knife  and  cut  himself 
badly;  and  George  tried  a  pair  of  scissors,  and 
the  scissors  flew  up,  and  nearly  put  his  eye  out. 
While  they  were  dressing  their  wounds,  I  tried  to 
make  a  hole  in  the  thing  with  the  spiky  end  of  the 
hitcher,  and  the  hitcher  slipped  and  jerked  me 


HJIivec  gOCcn  in  a  goat. 


185 


out  between  the  boat  and  the  bank  into  two  feet 
of  muddy  water,  and  the  tin  rolled  over,  unin¬ 
jured,  and  broke  a  teacup. 

Then  we  all  got  mad.  We  took  that  tin  out  oa 
the  bank,  and  Harris  went  up  into  a  field  and 
got  a  big  sharp  stone,  and  I  went  back  into  the 
boat  and  brought  out  the  mast,  and  George  held 
the  tin  and  Harris  held  the  sharp  end  of  his  stone 
against  the  top  of  it,  and  I  took  the  mast  and 
poised  it  high  in  the  air,  and  gathered  up  all  my 
strength  and  brought  it  down. 

It  was  George’s  straw  hat  that  saved  his  life 
that  day.  -  He  keeps  that. hat  now  (what  is  left  of 
it),  and,  of  a  winter’s  evening,  when  the  pipes  are 
lit  and  the  boys  are  telling  stretch'ers  about  the 
dangers  they  have  passed  through,  George  brings 
it  down  and  shows  it  around,  and  the  stirring  tale 
is  told  anew,  with  fresh  exaggerations  every  time. 

Harris  got  off  with  merely  a  flesh  wound. 

After  that,  I  took  the  tin  off  myself,  and  ham¬ 
mered  at  it  with  the  mast  till  I  was  worn  out  and 
sick  at  heart,  whereupon  Harris  took  it  in  hand. 

We  beat  it  out  flat;  we  beat  it  back  square;  we 
battered  it  into  every  form  known  to  geometry — - 
but  we  could  not  make  a  hole  in  it.  Then  George 
went  at  it,  and  knocked  it  into  a  shape  so  strange, 
so  weird,  so  unearthly  in  its  wild  hideousness, 
diat  he  got  frightened  and  threw  away  the  mast. 


186 


gtoejc  in  a  ISJjcrat. 


Then  we  all  three  sat  round  it  on  the  grass  and 
looked  at  it. 

There  was  one  great  dent  across  the  top  that 
had  the  appearance  of  a  mocking  grin,  and  it 
drove  us  furious,  so  that  Harris  rushed  at  the 
thing,  and  caught  it  up,  and  flung  it  far  into  the 
middle  of  the  river,  and  as  it  sank  we  hurled  our 
curses  at  it,  and  we  got  into  the  boat  and  rowed 
away  from  the  spot,  and  never  paused  till  we 
reached  Maidenhead. 

Maidenhead  itself  is  too  snobby  to  be  pleasant. 
It  is  the  haunt  of  the  river  swell  and  his  over¬ 
dressed  female  companion.  It  is  the  town  of 
showy  hotels,  patronized  chiefly  by  dudes  and 
ballet  girls.  It  is  the  witch’s  kitchen  from  which 
go  forth  those  demons  of  the  river — steam- 
launches.  The  London  Journal  duke  always  has 
his  “little  place”  at  Maidenhead;  and  the  heroine 
of  the  three  volume  novel  always  dines  there  when 
she  goes  out  on  a  spree  with  somebody  else’s 
husband. 

We  went  through  Maidenhead  quickly,  and 
then  eased  up,  and  took  leisurely  that  grand 
reach  beyond  Boulter’s  and  Cookham  locks. 
Clieveden  Woods  still  wort  their  dainty  dress  of 
spring,  and  rose  up,  from  the  water’s  edge,  in 
one  long  harmony  of  blended  shades  of  fairy 
green.  In  its  unbroken  loveliness  this  is,  per- 


$hvcc  UXcu  itt  a  gxrat. 


187 


haps,  the  sweetest  stretch  of  all  the  river,  and 
lingeringly  we  slowly  drew  our  little  boat  away 
from  its  deep  peace. 

We  pulled  up  in  the  backwater,  just  below 
Cookham,  and  had  tea;  and,  when  we  were 
through  the  lock,  it  was  evening.  A  stiffish 
breeze  had  sprung  up — in  our  favor,  for  a  won¬ 
der;  for,  as  a  rule  on  the  river,  the  wind  is  always 
dead  against  you  whatever  way  you  go.  It  is 
against  you  in  the  morning,  when  you  start  for  a 
day’s  trip,  and  you  pull  a  long  distance,  thinking 
how  easy  it  will  be  to  come  back  with  the  sail. 
Then,  after  tea,  the  wind  veers  round,  and  you 
have  to  pull  hard  in  its  teeth  all  the  way  home. 

When  you  forget  to  take  the  sail  at  all,  then 
the  wind  is  consistently  in  your  favor  both  ways. 
But  there!  this  world  is  only  a  probation,  and 
man  was  born  to  trouble  as  the  sparks  fly  up¬ 
ward. 

This  evening,  however,  they  had  evidently 
made  a  mistake,  and  had  put  the  wind  round  at 
our  back  instead  of  in  our  face.  We  kept  very 
quiet  about  it,  and  got  the  sail  up  qu'ck’y  before 
they  found  it  out,  and  then  we  spread  ourselves 
about  the  boat  in  thoughtful  attitudes,  and  the 
sail  bellied  out,  and  strained,  and  grumbled  at 
the  mast,  and  the  boat  flew. 

I  steered. 


188 


glntec  Wim  in  a  Jlcrat, 


There  is  no  more  thrilling  sensation  I  know  of 
than  sailing.  It  comes  as  near  to  flying  as  man 
has  got  to  yet — except  in  dreams.  The  wings  of 
the  rushing  wind  seemed  to  be  bearing  you  on¬ 
ward,  you  know  not  where.  You  are  no  longer 
the  low,  plodding,  puny  thing  of  clay,  creeping 
tortuously  upon  the  ground;  you  are  a  part  of 
Nature!  Your  heart  is  throbbing  against  hers! 
Her  glorious  arms  are  round  you,  raising  you  up 
against  her  heart!  Your  spirit  is  at  one  with 
hers;  your  limbs  grow  light!  The  voices  of  the 
air  are  singing  to  you.  The  earth  seems  far  away 
and  little;  and  the  clouds,  so  close  above  your 
head,  are  brothers,  and  you  stretch  your  arms 
to  them. 

We  had  the  river  to  ourselves,  except  that,  far 
in  the  distance,  we  could  see  a  fishing-punt, 
moored  in  mid-stream,  on  which  three  fishermen 
sat;  and  we  skimmed  over  the  water,  and  passed 
the  wrooded  banks,  and  no  one  spoke. 

I  w7as  steering. 

As  we  drew  nearer,  we  could  see  that  the  three 
men  fishing  seemed  old  and  solemn-looking 
men.  They  sat  on  three  chairs  in  the  punt,  and 
watched  intently  their  lines.  And  the  red  sunset 
threw  a  mystic  light  upon  the  waters,  and  tinged 
with  fire  the  towering  woods,  and  made  a  goMen 
glory  of  the  piled-up  clouds.  It  was  an  hour  of 


ftlcu  in  a  Jloat. 


189 


deep  enchantment,  of  ecstatic  hope  and  longing. 
The  little  sail  stood  out  against  the  purple  sky, 
the  gloaming  lay  around  us,  wrapping  the  world 
in  rainbow  shadows;  and,  behind  us,  crept  the 
night. 

We  seemed  like  knights  of  some  old  legend, 
sailing  across  some  mystic  lake  into  the  unknown 
realm  of  twilight,  unto  the  great  land  of  the  sun¬ 
set. 

We  did  not  go  into  the  realm  of  twilight;  we 
went  slap  into  that  punt  where  those  three  old 
men  were  fishing.  We  did  not  know  what  had 
happened  at  first,  because  the  sail  shut  out  the 
view,  but  from  the  nature  of  the  language  that 
rose  up  upon  the  evening  air,  we  gathered  that 
we  had  come  into  the  neighborhood  of  human 
beings  and  that  they  were  vexed  and  discon¬ 
tented. 

Harris  let  the  sail  down,  and  then  we  saw  what 
had  happened.  We  had  knocked  those  three  old 
gentlemen  off  their  chairs  into  a  general  heap  at 
the  bottom  of  the  boat,  and  they  were  now  slowly 
and  painfully  sorting  themselves  out  from  each 
other,  and  picking  fish  off  themselves;  and  as 
they  worked  they  cursed  us — not  with  a  common 
cursory  curse,  but  with  long,  carefully-thought- 
out,  comprehensive  curses,  that  embraced  the 
whole  of  our  career,  and  went  away  into  the  dis- 


190 


glmjc  JJXcix  in  a  SJoai. 


tinct  future,  and  included  all  our  relations,  and 
covered  everything  connected  with  us — good, 
substantial  curses. 

Harris  told  them  they  ought  to  be  grateful  for 
a  little  excitement,  sitting  there  fishing  all  day, 
and  he  also  said  that  he  was  shocked  and  grieved 
to  hear  men  of  their  age  give  way  to  temper  so. 

But  it  did  not  do  any  good. 

George  said  he  would  steer,  after  that.  He 
said  a  mind  like  mine  ought  not  to  be  expected 
to  give  itself  away  in  steering  boats — better  ^et  a 
mere  commonplace  human  being  see  after  that 
boat,  before  we  jolly  well  all  got  drowned;  and 
he  took  the  lines,  and  brought  us  up  to  Marlow. 

And  at  Marlow  we  left  the  boat  by  the  bndge, 
and  went  and  put  up  for  the  night  at  the  “Cro  vn.,J 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Marlow  is  one  of  the  pleasantest  river  centers 
I  know  of.  It  is  a  bustling,  lively  little  town; 
not  very  picturesque  on  the  whole,  it  is  true,  but 
there  are  many  quaint  nooks  and  corners  to  be 
found  in  it,  nevertheless — standing  arches  in  the 
shattered  bridge  of  Time,  over  which  our  fancy 
travels  back  to  the  days  when  Marlow  Manor 


gtXetx  in  a  gSirat. 


191 


owned  Saxon  Algar  for  its  lord,  ere  conquering 
William  seized  it  to  give  to  Queen  Matilda,  ere 
it  passed  to  the  Earls  of  Warwick  or  to  worldly- 
wise  Lord  Paget,  the  councillor  of  four  successive 
sovereigns. 

There  is  lovely  country  round  about  it,  too,  if, 
after  boating,  you  are  fond  of  a  walk,  while  the 
river  itself  is  at  its  best  here.  Down  to  Cookham, 
past  the  Quarry  Woods  and  the  meadows,  is  a 
lovely  reach.  Dear  old  Quarry  Woods!  with 
your  narrow,  climbing  paths,  and  little  winding 
glades,  how  scented  to  this  hour  you  seem  with 
memories  of  sunny  summer  days!  How  haunted 
are  your  shadowy  vistas  with  the  ghosts  of  laugh¬ 
ing  faces !  how  from  your  whispering  leaves  there 
softly  fall  the  voices  of  long  ago! 

From  Marlow  up  to  Sonning  is  even  fairer  yet. 
Grand  old  Bisham  Abbey,  whose  stone  walls 
have  rung  to  the  shouts  of  the  Knights  Templars, 
and  which,  at  one  time,  was  the  home  of  Anne 
of  Cleves,  and  at  another  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  is 
passed  on  the  right  bank  just  half  a  mile  above 
Marlow  Bridge.  Bisham  Abbey  is  rich  in  melo¬ 
dramatic  properties.  It  contains  a  tapestry  bed¬ 
chamber,  and  a  secret  room  hid  high  up  in  the 
thick  walls.  The  ghost  of  the  Lady  Holy,  who 
beat  her  little  boy  to  death,  still  walks  there  at 


192 


HJhvcc  gX-jcu  in  a  goax. 


night,  trying  to  wash  its  ghostly  hands  clean  in 
a  ghostly  basin. 

Warwick,  the  king-maker,  rests  there,  careless 
now  about  such  trivial  things  as  earthly  kings 
and  earthly  kingdoms;  and  Salisbury,  who  did 
good  service  at  Poictiers.  Just  before  you  come 
to  the  abbey,  and  right  on  the  river’s  bank,  is 
Bisham  Church,  and,  perhaps,  if  any  tombs  are 
worth  inspecting,  they  are  the  tombs  and  monu¬ 
ments  in  Bisham  Church.  It  was  while  floating 
in  his  boat  under  the  Bisham  beeches  that  Shel¬ 
ley,  who  was  then  living  at  Marlow  (you  can  see 
his  house  now,  in  West  Street),  composed  The 
Revolt  of  Islam. 

By  Hurley  Weir,  a  little  higher  up,  I  have  often 
thought  I  could  stay  a  month  without  having  suf¬ 
ficient  time  to  drink  in  all  the  beauty  of  the  scene. 
The  village  of  Hurley,  five  minutes’  walk  from 
the  lock,  is  as  old  a  little  spot  as  there  is  on  the 
river,  dating,  as  it  does,  to  quote  the  quaint 
phraseology  of  those  dim  days,  “from  the  times  of 
King  Sebert  and  King  Offa.”  Just  past  the  weir 
(going  up)  is  Danes’  Field,  where  the  invading 
Danes  once  encamped,  during  their  march  to 
Gloucestershire;  and  a  little  further  still,  nestling 
by  a  sweet  corner  of  the  stream,  is  what  is  left 
of  Med  men  ham  Abbey. 

The  famous  Medmenham  monks,  or  “Hell  Fire 


$&££#  fjjfcjett  in  a  gcrat- 


193 


Club,”  as  they  were  commonly  called,  and  of 
whom  the  notorious  Wilkes  was  a  member,  were 
a  fraternity  whose  motto  was,  “Do  as  you 
please,”  and  that  invitation  still  stands  over  the 
ruined  doorway  of  the  Abbey.  Many  years  be¬ 
fore  this  bogus  abbey,  with  its  congregation  of 
irreverent  jesters,  was  founded,  there  stood  upon 
this  same  spot  a  monastery  of  a  sterner  kind, 
whose  monks  were  of  a  somewhat  different  type 
to  the  revelers  that  were  to  follow  them,  five 
hundred  years  afterward. 

The  Cistercian  monks,  whose  abbey  stood  there 
in  the  thirteenth  century,  wore  no  clothes  but 
rough  tunics  and  cowls,  and  ate  no  flesh,  nor  fish, 
nor  eggs.  They  lay  upon  straw,  and  they  rose  at 
midnight  to  mass.  They  spent  the  day  in  labor, 
reading,  and  prayer;  and  over  all  their  lives  there 
fell  a  silence  as  of  death,  for  no  one  spoke. 

A  grim  fraternity,  passing  grim  lives  in  that 
sweet  spot,  that  God  had  made  so  bright!  Strange 
that  Nature’s  voices  all  around  them — the  soft 
singing  of  the  waters,  the  whisperings  of  the  river 
grass,  the  music  of  the  rushing  wind — should  not 
have  taught  them  a  truer  meaning  of  life  than  this. 
They  listened  there,  through  the  long  days,  in 
silence,  waiting  for  a  voice  from  heaven;  and  all 
day  long  and  through  the  solemn  night  it  spo1^ 
to  them  in  myriad  tones,  and  they  heard  it  not 


194 


jc  gtjcu  lit  a  gjoat. 


From  Medmenham  to  sweet  Hambledon  Lock 
the  river  is  full  of  peaceful  beauty,  but,  after  it 
passes  Greenlands,  the  rather  uninteresting  look¬ 
ing  residence  of  my  news  agent — a  quiet,  unas¬ 
suming  old  gentleman,  who  may  often  be  met 
with  about  these  regions,  during  the  summer 
months,  sculling  himself  along  in  easy,  vigorous 
style,  or  chatting  genially  to  some  old  lock- 
keeper  as  he  passes  through — until  well  the  other 
side  of  Henley,  it  is  somewhat  bare  and  dull. 

We  got  up  tolerably  early  on  the  Monday 
morning  at  Marlow,  and  went  for  a  bath  before 
breakfast;  and,  coming  back,  Montmorency 
made  an  awful  ass  of  himself.  The  only  subject 
on  which  Montmorency  and  I  have  any  serious 
difference  of  opinion  is  cats.  I  like  cats;  Mont¬ 
morency  does  not. 

When  I  meet  a  cat,  I  say,  “Poor  Pussy!”  and 
stoop  down  and  tickle  the  side  of  its  head;  and 
the  cat  sticks  up  its  tail  in  a  rigid,  cast-iron  man¬ 
ner,  arches  its  back,  and  wipes  its  nose  up  against 
my  trousers;  and  all  is  gentleness  and  peace. 
When  Montmorency  meets  a  cat,  the  whole 
street  knows  about  it;  and  there  is  enough  bad 
language  wasted  in  ten  seconds  to  last  an  ordi¬ 
narily  respectable  man  all  his  life,  with  care. 

I  do  not  blame  the  dog  (contenting  myself,  as 
a  rule,  with  merely  clouting  his  head  or  throwing 


gfoejeje  ptcn  in  a  goat. 


195 


stones  at  him),  because  I  take  it  that  it  is  his 
nature.  Fox  terriers  are  born  with  about  four 
times  as  much  original  sin  in  them  as  other  dogs 
are,  and  it  will  take  years  and  years  of  patient 
effort  on  the  part  of  us  Christians  to  bring  about 
any  appreciable  reformation  in  the  rowdiness  of 
the  fox-terrier  nature. 

I  remember  being  in  the  lobby  of  the  Havmar- 
ket  Stores  one  day,  and  all  round  about  me  were 
dogs,  waiting  for  the  return  of  their  owners,  who 
were  shopping  inside.  There  were  a  mastiff,  and 
one  or  two  collies,  and  a  St.  Bernard,  a  few  re¬ 
trievers  and  Newfoundlands,  a  boar-hound,  a 
French  poodle,  with  plenty  of  hair  round  its  head, 
but  mangy  about  the  middle;  a  bull-dog,  a  few 
Lowther  Arcade  sort  of  animals,  about  the  size 
of  rats,  and  a  couple  of  Yorkshire  tyke's. 

There  they  sat,  patient,  good,  and  thoughtful. 
A  solemn  peacefulness  seemed  to  reign  in  that 
lobby.  An  air  of  calmness  and  resignation — of 
gentle  sadness  pervaded  the  room. 

Then  a  sweet  young  lady  entered,  leading  a 
meek  looking  little  fox-terrier,  and  left  him 
chained  up  there,  between  the  bull-dog  and  the 
poodle.  He  sat  and  looked  about  him  for  a 
minute.  Then  he  cast  up  his  eyes  to  the  celling, 
and  seemed,  judging  from  his  expression,  to  be 
thinking  of  his  mother.  Then  lie  yawned.  Then 


190 


Qhxcz  3*lcn  in  a  goat. 


lie  looked  round  at  the  other  dogs,  all  silent, 
grave,  and  dignified. 

He  looked  at  the  bull-dog,  sleeping  dreamlessly 
on  his  right.  He  looked  at  the  poodle,  erect  and 
haughty,  on  his  left.  Then,  without  a  word  of 
warning,  without  the  shadow  of  a  provocation,  he 
bit  that  poodle’s  near  fore-leg,  and  a  yelp  of  agony 
rang  through  the  quiet  shades  of  that  lobby. 

The  result  of  his  first  experiment  seemed  highly 
satisfactory  to  him,  and  he  determined  to  go  on 
and  make  things  lively  all  round.  He  sprang  over 
the  poodle  and  vigorously  attacked  a  collie,  and 
the  collie  woke  up  and  immediately  commenced  a 
fierce  and  noisy  contest  with  the  poodle.  Then 
Foxey  came  back  to  his  own  place,  and  caught 
tiie  bull-dog  by  the  ear,  and  tried  to  throw  him 
away;  and  the  bull-dog,  a  curiously  impartial  ani¬ 
mal,  went  for  everything  he  could  reach,  includ¬ 
ing  the  hall-porter,  which  gave  that  dear  little  ter¬ 
rier  the  opportunity  to  enjoy  an  uninterrupted 
fight  of  his  own  with  an  equally  willing  York¬ 
shire  tyke. 

Any  one  who  knows  canine  nature  need  hardly 
be  told  that,  by  this  time,  all  the  other  dogs  in 
file  place  were  fighting  as  if  their  hearths  and 
homes  depended  on  the  fray.  The  big  dogs 
fought  each  other  indiscriminately;  and  the  little 


gJfxvjeje  in  a  gjcrat. 


m 


dogs  fought  among  themselves,  and  filled  up  their 
spare  time  by  biting  the  legs  of  the  big  dogs. 

The  whole  lobby  was  a  perfect  pandemonium, 
and  the  din  was  terrific.  A  crowd  assembled  out- 
side  in  the  Haymarket,  and  asked  if  it  was  a 
vestry  meeting;  or,  if  not,  who  was  being  mur¬ 
dered,  and  why?  Men  came  with  poles  and 
ropes,  and  tried  to  separate  the  dogs,  and  the 
police  were  sent  for. 

And  in  the  midst  of  the  riot  that  sweet  young 
lady  returned,  and  snatched  up  that  sweet  little 
dog  of  hers  (he  had  laid  the  tyke  up  for  a  month, 
and  had  on  the  expression,  now,  of  a  new-bora 
lamb)  into  her  arms,  and  kissed  him,  and  asked 
him  if  he  was  killed,  and  what  those  great  nasty 
brutes  of  dogs  had  been  doing  to  him;  and  he 
nestled  up  against  her,  and  gazed  up  into  her 
face  with  a  look  that  seemed  to  say:  “Oh,  Pm 
so  glad  you’ve  come  to  take  me  away  from  this 
disgraceful  scene!” 

She  said  that  the  people  at  the  Stores  had  no 
right  to  allow  great  savage  things  like  those  other 
dogs  to  be  put  with  respectable  people’s  dogs,  and 
that  she  had  a  great  mind  to  summon  somebody. 

Such  is  the  nature  of  fox-terriers;  and,  there¬ 
fore,  I  do  not  blame  Montmorency  for  his  ten*- 
dency  to  row  with  cats;  but  he  wished  he  had 
*iot  given  way  to  it  that  morning. 


198 


gftvcc  plctx  in  a  goat. 


We  were,  as  I  have  said,  returning  frotn  a  dip, 
and  half-way  up  the  High  Street  a  cat  darted  out 
from  one  of  the  houses  in  front  of  him,  and  began 
to  trot  across  the  road.  Montmorency  gave  a 
cry  of  joy — the  cry  of  a  stern  warrior  who  sees 
his  enemy  given  over  to  his  hands — the  sort  of 
cry  Cromwell  might  have  uttered  when  the  Scots 
came  down  the  hill — and  flew  after  his  prey. 

His  victim  was  a  large  black  Tom.  I  never 
saw  a  larger  cat,  nor  a  more  disreputable-looking 
cat.  It  had  lost  half  its  tail,  one  of  its  ears,  and 
a  fairly  appreciable  proportion  of  its  nose.  It 
was  a  long,  sinewy-looking  animal.  It  had  a 
calm,  contented  air  about  it. 

Montmorency  went  for  that  poor  cat  at  the 
rate  of  twenty  miles  an  hour;  but  the  cat  did 
not  hurry  up — did  not  seem  to  have  grasped 
the  idea  that  its  life  was  in  danger.  It  trotted 
quietly  on  until  its  would-be  assassin  was  within 
a  yard  of  it,  and  then  turned  round  and  sat  down 
in  the  middle  of  the  road,  and  looked  at  Mont¬ 
morency  with  a  gentle,  inquiring  expression  that 
said: 

“Yes!  You  want  me?” 

Montmorency  does  not  lack  pluck;  but  there 
was  something  about  the  look  of  that  cat  that 
might  have  chilled  the  heart  of  the  boldest  dog. 
He  stopped  abruptly,  and  looked  back  at  Tom, 


JTxvcjc  pt m  in  a  Herat. 


199 


Neither  spoke;  but  the  conversation  that  one 
.  iould  imagine  was  clearly  as  follows: 

The  Cat:  "‘Can  I  do  anything  for  you?” 

Montmorency:  “No — no,  thanks/’ 

The  Cat:  "‘Don't  you  mind  speaking,  if  you 
really  want  anything,  you  know.” 

Montmorency  (backing  down  the  High  Street): 
“Oh, — no — not  at  all — certainly — don’t  you  trou¬ 
ble/  I — I  am  afraid  I’ve  made  a  mistake.  I 
thought  I  knew  you.  Sorry  I  disturbed  you.” 

The  Cat:  “Not  at  all — quite  a  pleasure.  Sure 
you  don’t  want  anything,  now?” 

Montmorency  (still  backing):  “Not  at  all, 
thanks — not  at  all — very  kind  of  you.  Good¬ 
morning.” 

The  Cat:  "‘Good-morning.” 

Then  the  cat  rose  and  continued  his  trot;  and 
Montmorency,  fitting  what  he  calls  his  tail  care¬ 
fully  into  its  groove,  came  back  to  us,  and  took 
up  an  unimportant  position  in  the  rear. 

To  this  day,  if  you  say  the  word  “Cats!”  to 
Montmorency,  he  will  visibly  shrink  and  look  up 
piteously  at  you,  as  if  to  say : 

“Please  don’t.” 

We  did  our  marketing  after  breakfast,  and  re¬ 
victualled  the  boat  for  three  days.  George  said 
we  ought  to  take  vegetables — that  it  was  un¬ 
healthy  not  to  eat  vegetables.  He  said  they  were 


easy  enough  to  cook,  and  that  he  would  see  to 
that;  so  we  got  ten  pounds  of  potatoes,  a  bushel 
of  peas,  and  a  few  cabbages.  We  got  a  beefsteak 
pie,  a  couple  of  gooseberry  tarts,  and  a  leg  of 
mutton  from  the  hotel ;  and  fruit,  and  cakes,  and 
bread  and  butter,  and  jam,  and  bacon  and  eggs, 
and  other  things  we  foraged  round  about  the 
town  for. 

Our  departure  from  Marlow  I  regard  as  one 
of  our  greatest  successes.  It  was  dignified  and 
impressive,  without  being  ostentatious.  We  had 
insisted  at  all  the  shops  we  had  been  to  that  the 
things  should  be  sent  with  us  then  and  there. 
None  of  your  “Yes,  sir,  I  will  send  them  off  at 
once:  the  boy  will  be  down  there  before  you 
are,  sir!”  and  then  fooling  about  on  the  landing- 
stage,  and  going  back  to  the  shop  twice  to  have 
a  row  about  them,  for  us.  We  waited  while  the 
basket  was  packed,  and  took  the  boy  with  us. 

We  went  to  a  good  many  shops,  adopting  this 
principle  at  each  one;  and  the  consequence  was 
that,  by  the  time  we  had  finished,  we  had  as  fine 
a  collection  of  boys  with  baskets  following  us 
around  as  heart  could  desire,  and  our  final  march 
down  the  middle  of  the  High  Street,  to  the  river, 
aiust  have  been  as  imposing  a  spectacle  as  Mar¬ 
low  had  seen  for  many  a  long  day. 

The  order  of  the  procession  was  as  follows: 


QUxjm  |$Xcn  in  a  goat. 


Montmorency,  carrying  a  stick. 

Two  disreputable-looking  curs,  friends  of 
Montmorency’s. 

( Worge ,  carrying  coats  and  rugs,  and  smoking  a. 

short  pipe. 

Harris,  trying  to  walk  with  easy  grace, 
while  carrying  a  bulged-out  Gladstone  bag  in  one 
hand  and  a  bottle  of  lime-juice  in  the  other. 
Greengrocer’s  boy  and  baker’s  boy,  with  baskets. 
Boots  from  the  hotel,  carrying  a  hamper. 
Confectioner’s  boy,  with  basket. 

Grocer’s  boy,  with  basket. 
Long-haired  dog. 

Cheesemonger’s  boy,  with  basket. 

Odd  man,  carrying  a  bag. 

Bosom  companion  of  odd  man,  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  smoking  a  short  clay. 
Fruiterer’s  boy,  with  basket. 

Myself,  carrying  three  hats  and  a  pair  of  boots, 
and  trying  to  look  as  if  I  didn’t  know  it. 

Six  small  boys,  and  four  stray  dogs. 

When  we  got  down  to  the  landing-stage,  the 
ooatman  said: 

“Let  me  see,  sir;  was  yours  a  steam  launch  or 
a  house-boat?” 

On  our  informing  him  it  was  a  double-sculling 
skiff,  he  seemed  surprised. 


202 


gtoee  l^tjeix  in  a  fjjSo&t. 


We  had  a  good  deal  of  trouble  with  steam 
launches  that  morning.  It  was  just  before  the 
Henley  week,  and  they  were  going  up  in  large 
numbers;  some  by  themselves,  some  towing 
house-boats.  I  do  hate  steam  launches:  I  sup¬ 
pose  every  rowing  man  does.  I  never  see  a 
steam  launch  but  I  feel  I  should  like  to  lure  it  to 
a  lonely  part  of  the  river,  and  there,  in  the  silence 
and  the  solitude,  strangle  it. 

There  is  a  blatant  bumptiousness  about  a  steam 
launch  that  has  the  knack  of  rousing  every  evil 
instinct  in  my  nature,  and  I  yearn  for  the  good 
old  days,  when  you  could  go  about  and  tell  peo¬ 
ple  what  you  thought  of  them  with  a  hatchet  and 
a  bow  and  arrows.  The  expression  on  the  face 
of  the  man  who,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
stands  by  the  stern  smoking  a  cigar,  is  sufficient 
to  excuse  a  breach  of  the  peace  by  itself;  and  the 
lordly  whistle  for  you  to  get  out  of  the  way 
would,  I  am  confident,  insure  a  verdict  of  ‘‘justi¬ 
fiable  homicide”  from  any  jury  of  river  men. 

They  used  to  have  to  whistle  for  us  to  get  out 
of  their  way.  If  I  may  do  so,  without  appearing 
boastful,  I  think  I  can  honestly  say  that  our  one 
small  boat,  during  that  week,  caused  more  annoy¬ 
ance  and  delay  and  aggravation  to  the  steam 
launches  that  we  came  across  than  all  the  otner 
craft  on  the  river  put  together. 


gfttt ee  fpen  in  a  goat. 


203 


'‘Steam  launch  coming !”  one  of  us  would  cry 
out,  on  sighting  the  enemy  in  the  distance;  and, 
in  an  instant,  everything  was  got  ready  to  receive 
her.  I  would  take  the  lines,  and  Harris  and 
George  would  sit  down  beside  me,  all  of  us  with 
our  backs  to  the  launch,  and  the  boat  would  drift 
out  quietly  into  midstream. 

On  would  come  the  launch,  whistling,  and  on 
we  would  go,  drifting.  At  about  a  hundred  yards 
off,  she  would  start  whistling  like  mad,  and  the 
people  would  come  and  lean  over  the  side,  and 
roar  at  us;  but  we  never  heard  them!  Harris 
would  be  telling  us  an  anecdote  about  his  mother, 
.  and  George  and  I  would  not  have  missed  a  word 
of  it  for  worlds. 

Then  that  launch  would  give  one  final  shriek 
of  a  whistle  that  would  nearly  burst  the  boiler, 
and  she  would  reverse  her  engines,  and  blow  off 
steam,  and  swing  around  and  get  aground;  every 
one  on  board  of  it  would  rush  to  the  bow  and  yell 
at  us,  and  the  people  on  the  bank  would  stand 
and  shout  to  us,  and  all  the  other  passing  boats 
would  stop  and  join  in,  till  the  whole  river  for 
miles  up  and  down  was  in  a  state  of  frantic  com¬ 
motion.  And  then  Harris  would  break  off  in  the 
most  interesting  part  of  his  narrative,  and  look  up 
with  mild  surprise,  and  say  to  George: 


$04  ghxti c  in  a  goat. 

“Why,  George,  bless  me,  if  here  isn’t  a  steam 
launch !” 

And  George  would  answer: 

“Well,  do  you  know,  I  thought  I  heard  some¬ 
thing!” 

Upon  which  we  would  get  nervous  and  con¬ 
fused,  and  not  know  how  to  get  the  boat  out  of 
the  way,  and  the  people  in  the  launch  would 
crowd  round  and  instruct  us: 

“Pull  your  right — you,  you  idiot!  back  with 
your  left.  No,  not  you,  the  other  one — leave  the 
lines  alone,  can’t  you — now,  both  together.  NOT 
that  way.  Oh,  you - !” 

Then  they  would  lower  a  boat  and  come  to 
our  assistance;  and,  after  a  quarter  of  an  hour’s 
effort,  would  get  us  clean  out  of  their  way,  so 
that  they  could  go  on ;  and  we  would  thank  them 
so  much,  and  ask  them  to  give  us  a  tow.  But 
they  never  would. 

Another  good  way  we  discovered  of  irritating 
the  aristocratic  type  of  steam  launch,  was  to  mis¬ 
take  them  for  a  bean-feast,  and  ask  them  if  they 
were  Messrs.  Cubit’s  lot  or  the  Bermondsey  Good 
Templars,  and  could  they  lend  us  a  saucepan. 

Old  ladies,  not  accustomed  to  the  river,  are 
always  intensely  nervous  of  steam  launches.  I 
remember  going  up  once  from  Staines  to  Wind¬ 
sor— a  stretch  of  water  peculiarly  rich  in  these 


mechanical  monstrosities — with  a  party  contain¬ 
ing  three  ladies  of  this  description.  It  was  very 
exciting.  At  the  first  glimpse  of  every  steam 
launch  that  came  in  view,  they  insisted  on  land¬ 
ing  and  sitting  down  on  the  bank  until  it  was 
out  of  sight  again.  They  said  they  were  very 
sorry,  but  that  they  owed  it  to  their  families  not 
to  be  foolhardy. 

We  found  ourselves  short  of  water  at  Hamble- 
don  Lock;  so  we  took  our  jar  and  went  up  to 
the  lock-keeper’s  house  to  beg  for  some. 

George  was  our  spokesman.  He  put  on  a  win¬ 
ning  smile,  and  said: 

“Oh,  please,  could  you  spare  us  a  little  water?* 

“Certainly,”  replied  the  old  gentleman;  “take 
as  much  as  you  want,  and  leave  the  rest.” 

“Thank  you  so  much,”  murmured  George, 
looking  about  him.  “Where — where  do  you  keep 
it?” 

“It’s  always  in  the  same  place,  my  boy,”  was 
the  stolid  reply:  “just  behind  you.” 

“I  don’t  see  it,”  said  George,  turning  round. 

“Why,  bless  us,  where’s  your  eyes?”  was  the 
man’s  comment,  as  he  twisted  George  round  and 
pointed  up  and  down  the  stream.  “There’s 
enough  of  it  to  see,  ain’t  there?” 

“Oh!”  exclaimed  George,  grasping  the  idea; 
“but  we  can’t  drink  the  river,  you  knowF 


206 


gftvce  | WLtn  in  a  '^oat. 


“No;  but  you  can  drink  some  of  it,”  replied  the 
old  fellow.  “It’s  what  I’ve  drunk  for  the  last 
fifteen  years.” 

George  told  him  that  his  appearance,  after  the 
course,  did  not  seem  a  sufficiently  good  adver¬ 
tisement  for  the  brand;  and  that  he  would  prefer 
it  out  of  a  pump. 

We  got  some  from  a  cottage  a  little  higher  up. 
I  dare  say  that  was  only  river  water,  if  we  had 
known.  But  we  did  not  know,  so  it  was  all  right. 
What  the  eye  does  not  see,  the  stomach  does  not 
get  upset  over. 

We  tried  river  water  once,  later  on  in  the  sea¬ 
son,  but  it  was  not  a  success.  We  were  coming 
down  stream,  and  had  pulled  up  to  have  tea  in 
a  backwater  near  Windsor.  Our  jar  was  empty, 
and  it  was  a  case  of  going  without  tea  or  taking 
water  from  the  river.  Harris  was  for  chancing, 
it.  He  said  it  must  be  all  right  if  we  boiled  the 
water.  He  said  that  the  various  germs  of  poison 
present  in  the  water  would  be  killed  by  the  boil¬ 
ing.  So  we  filled  our  kettle  with  Thames  back¬ 
water,  and  boiled  it;  and  very  careful  we  were 
to  see  that  it  did  boil. 

We  had  made  the  tea,  and  were  just  settling 
down  comfortably  to  drink  it,  when  George,  with 
his  cup  halt-way  to  his  lips,  paused  and  ex¬ 
claimed: 


ghvec  fgt m  in  a  IBoat. 


20f 


“What’s  that?” 

“What’s  what?”  asked  Harris  and  I. 

“Why,  that !’’  said  George,  looking  westward. 

Harris  and  I  followed  his  gaze,  and  saw,  com 
mg  down  toward  us  on  the  sluggish  current,  i 
dog.  It  was  one  of  the  quietest  and  peacefules\ 
dogs  I  have  ever  seen.  I  never  met  a  dog  who 
seemed  more  contented — more  easy  in  its  mind. 
It  was  floating  dreamily  on  its  back,  with  its  foui 
legs  stuck  up  straight  into  the  air.  It  was  what 
I  should  call  a  full-bodied  dog,  with  a  well-devel¬ 
oped  chest.  On  he  came,  serene,  dignified,  and 
calm,  until  he  was  abreast  of  our  boat,  and  there, 
among  the  rushes,  he  eased  up,  and  settled  down 
cosily  for  the  evening. 

George  said  he  didn’t  want  any  tea,  and  emp¬ 
tied  his  cup  into  the  water.  Harris  did  not  feel 
thirsty,  either,  and  followed  suit.  I  had  drunk 
half  mine,  but  I  wished  I  had  not. 

I  asked  George  if  he  thought  I  was  likely  to 
have  typhoid. 

He  said:  “Oh,  no”;  he  thought  I  had  a  very 
good  chance  indeed  of  escaping  it.  Anyhow,  I 
should  know  in  about  a  fortnight,  whether  I  had 
or  had  not. 

We  went  up  the  backwater  to  Wargrave.  It  is 
a  short  cut,  leading  out  of  the  right-hand  bank 
about  half  a  mile  above  Marsh-Lock,  and  is  well 


gte*  pUix  in  a  ^uoat. 


m 

worth  taking,  being  a  pretty  shady  little  piece  of 
stream,  besides  saving  nearly  half  a  mile  of  dis¬ 
tance. 

Of  course,  its  entrance  is  studded  with  posts 
and  chains,  and  surrounded  with  notice  boards, 
menacing  all  kinds  of  torture,  imprisonment,  and 
death  to  every  one  who  dares  set  scull  upon  its 
waters — I  wonder  some  of  these  riparian  boors 
don’t  claim  the  air  of  the  river  and  threaten 
every  one  with  forty  shillings  fine  who  breathes 
it- — but  the  posts  and  chains  a  little  skill  will  easily 
avoid;  and  as  for  the  boards,  you  might,  if  you 
have  five  minutes  to  spare,  and  there  is  nobody 
about  take  one  or  two  of  them  down  and  throw 
them  into  the  river. 

Half-way  up  the  backwater,  we  got  out  and 
lunched;  and  it  was  during  this  lunch  that 
George  and  I  received  rather  a  trying  shock. 

Harris  received  a  shock,  too;  but  I  do  not 
think  Harris’s  shock  could  have  been  anything 
like  so  bad  as  the  shock  that  George  and  I  had 
over  the  business. 

You  see,  it  was  in  this  way:  we  were  sitting  in 
a  meadow,  about  ten  yards  from  the  water’s  edge, 
and  we  had  just  settled  down  comfortably  to  feed. 
Harris  had  the  beefsteak  pie  between  his  knees, 
and  was  carving  it,  and  George  and  I  were  wait¬ 
ing  with  our  plates  ready. 


glxtxc  DXcn  xu  a  |SSxrat.  20$ 

“Have  you  got  a  spoon  there?”  says  Harris. 
“I  want  a  spo®n  to  help  the  gravy  with.” 

The  hamper  was  close  behind  us,  and  George 
and  I  both  turned  round  to  reach  ore  out.  We 
were  not  five  seconds  getting  it.  Wren  we  looked 
round  again,  Harris  and  the  pie.  were  gone! 

It  was  a  wide  open  field.  Tbf(  i  was  not  a  tree 
or  a  bit  of  hedge  for  hundmhj  of  yards.  He 
could  not  have  tumbled  into  the  river,  because 
we  were  on  the  water  side  of  Vim,  and  he  would 
have  had  to  climb  over  us  to  do  it. 

George  and  I  gazed  all  abo'v  V  Then  we  gazed 
at  each  other. 

“Has  he  been  snatched  up  to  heaven?”  I  quer¬ 
ied. 

“They’d  hardly  have  take  the  pie,  too,”  said 
George. 

There  seemed  weight  in  t'  is  objection,  and  we 
discarded  the  heavenly  thee  ?y. 

“I  suppose  the  truth  of  the  natter  is,”  suggested 
George,  descending  to  thf  commonplace  and 
practicable,  “that  there  has  I  £en  an  earthquake.” 

And  then  he  added,  with  r.  touch  of  sadness  in 
his  voice:  “I  wish  he  hadi  \  been  carving  that 
pie.” 

With  a  sigh,  we  turned  <  ir  eyes  once  more 
toward  the  spot  wrhere  Harris  Mid  the  pie  had  last 
been  seen  on  earth;  and  there  as  our  blood  froze 


210 


glvvjcc  |£%m  in  a 


in  our  veins  and  our  hair  stood  up  on  end,  we 
saw  Harris’s  head — and  nothing  but  his  head- 
sticking  bolt  upright  among  the  tall  grass,  the 
face  very  red,  and  bearing  upon  it  an  expression 
of  great  indignation! 

George  was  the  first  to  recover. 

“Speak!”  he  cried,  “and  tell  us  whether  you  are 
alive  or  dead — and  where  is  the  rest  of  you?” 

“Oh,  don’t  be  a  stupid  ass!”  said  Harris’s  head. 
“I  believe  you  did  it  on  purpose.” 

“Did  what?”  exclaimed  George  and  I? 

“Why,  put  me  to  sit  here — darn  silly  trick! 
Here,  catch  hold  of  the  pie.” 

And  out  of  the  middle  of  the  earth,  as  it 
seemed  to  us,  rose  the  pie — very  much  mixed  up 
and  damaged;  and,  after  it,  scrambled  Harris — • 
tumbled,  grubby,  and  wet. 

He  had  been  sitting,  without  knowing  it,  oil 
the  very  verge  of  a  small  gully,  the  long  grass 
hiding  it  from  view;  and  in  leaning  a  little  back 
he  had  shot  over,  pie  and  all. 

He  said  he  had  never  felt  so  surprised  in  all  his 
life,  as  when  he  first  felt  himself  going,  without 
being  able  to  conjecture  in  the  slightest  what  had 
happened. 

He  thought  at  first  that  the  end  of  the  world 
had  come. 

Harris  believes  to  this  day  that  George  and  I 


e  f&m  in  a  goat. 


211 


planned  it  all  beforehand.  Thus  does  unjust  sus¬ 
picion  follow  even  the  most  blameless;  for,  as 
the  poet  says,  “Who  shall  escape  calumny?” 
Who  indeed! 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

We  caught  a  breeze,  after  lunch,  which  took  us 
gently  up  past  Wargrave  and  Shiplake.  Mel¬ 
lowed  in  the  drowsy  sunlight  of  a  summer’s  after¬ 
noon,  Wargrave,  nestling  where  the  river  bends, 
makes  a  sweet  old  picture  as  you  pass  it,  and 
one  that  lingers  long  upon  the  retina  of  memory. 

The  “George  and  Dragon”  at  Wargrave  boasts 
a  sign,  painted  on  one  side  by  Leslie,  R.  A.,  and 
on  the  other  by  Hodgson  of  that  ilk.  Leslie  has 
depicted  the  fight;  Hodgson  has  imagined  the 
scene,  “After  the  Fight” — George,  the  work  done, 
enjoying  his  pint  of  beer. 

Day,  the  author  of  Sanford  and  Merton,  lived 
and — more  credit  to  the  place  still — was  killed  at 
Wargrave.  In  the  church  is  a  memorial  to  Mrs. 
Sarah  Hill,  who  bequeathed  £i  annually,  to  be 
divided  at  Easter,  between  two  boys  and  two  girls 
who  “have  never  been  undutiful  to  their  parents; 
who  have  never  been  known  to  swear  or  to  tell 
untruths,  to  steal,  or  to  break  windows.”  Fancy 


212 


e  fJ&jeix  in  a  gljcrat. 


giving  up  all  that  for  five  shillings  a  year!  It  is 
not  worth  it. 

It  is  rumored  in  the  town  that  once,  many 
years  ago,  a  boy  appeared  who  really  never  had 
done  these  things — or  at  all  events,  which  was  all 
that  was  required  or  could  be  expected,  had 
never  been  known  to  do  them — and  thus  won  the 
crown  of  glory.  He  was  exhibited  for  three 
weeks  afterward  in  the  Town  Hall,  under  a  glass 
case. 

What  has  become  of  the  money  since  no  one 
knows.  They  say  it  is  always  handed  over  to 
the  nearest  wax-works  show. 

Shiplake  is  a  pretty  village,  but  it  cannot  be 
seen  from  the  river,  being  upon  the  hill.  Tenny¬ 
son  was  married  in  Shiplake  Church. 

The  river  up  to  Sonning  winds  in  and  out 
through  many  islands,  and  is  very  placid,  hushed 
and  lonely.  Few  folk,  except,  at  twilight,  a  pair 
or  two  of  rustic  lovers,  walk  along  its  banks. 
’Arry  and  Lord  Fitznoodle  have  been  left  behind 
at  Flenley,  and  dismal,  dirty  Reading  is  not  yet 
reached.  It  is  a  part  of  the  river  in  which  to 
dream  of  bygone  days,  and  vanished  forms  and 
faces,  and  things  that  might  have  been,  but  are 
not,  confound  them. 

We  got  out  at  Sonning,  and  went  for  a  walk 
round  the  village.  It  is  the  most  fairy-like  little 


Jpweje  fjdjew  in  a  gjoat 


213 


nook  on  the  whole  river.  It  is  more  like  a  stage 
village  than  one  built  of  bricks  and  mortar.  Every 
house  is  smothered  in  roses,  and  now,  in  early 
June,  they  were  bursting  forth  in  clouds  of  dainty 
splendor.  If  you  stop  at  Sonning,  put  up  at  the 
“Bull,”  behind  the  church.  It  is  a  veritable  pic¬ 
ture  of  an  old  country  inn,  with  green,  square 
courtyard  in  front,  where,  on  seats  beneath  the 
trees,  the  old  men  group  of  an  evening  to  drink 
their  ale  and  gossip  over  village  politics;  with' 
low,  quaint  rooms  and  latticed  windows,  and 
awkward  stairs  and  winding  passages. 

We  roamed  about  sweet  Sonning  for  an  hour 
or  so,  and  then,  it  being  too  late  to  push  on  past 
Reading,  we  decided  to  go  back  to  one  of  the 
Shiplake  islands,  and  put  up  there  for  the  night. 
It  was  still  early  when  we  got  settled,  and  George 
said  that  as  we  had  plenty  of  time,  it  would  be  a 
splendid  opportunity  to  try  a  good,  slap-up  sup¬ 
per.  He  said  he  would  show  us  what  could  be 
done  up  the  river  in  the  way  of  cooking,  and 
suggested  that,  with  the  vegetables  and  the  re¬ 
mains  of  the  cold  beef  and  general  odds  and  ends, 
we  should  make  an  Irish  stew. 

It  seemed  a  fascinating  idea.  George  gathered 
wood  and  made  a  fire,  and  Harris  and  I  started 
to  peel  the  potatoes.  I  should  never  have  thought 
that  peeling  potatoes  was  such  an  undertaking. 


214 


$h*jee  ptm  in  a  |3oat. 


The  job  turned  out  to  be  the  biggest  thing  of  its 
kind  that  I  had  ever  been  in.  We  began  cheer¬ 
fully,  one  might  almost  say  skittisnly,  but  our 
light-heartedness  was  gone  by  the  time  the  first 
potato  was  finished.  The  more  we  peeled,  the 
more  peel  there  seemed  to  be  left  on;  by  the 
time  we  had  got  all  the  peel  off  and  all  the  eyes 
out,  there  was  no  potato  left — at  least  none  worth 
speaking  of.  George  came  and  had  a  look  at  it 
— it  was  about  the  size  of  a  peanut.  He  said: 

“Oh,  that  won’t  do!  You’re  wasting  them. 
You  must  scrape  them.” 

So  we  scraped  them,  and  that  was  harder  work 
than  peeling.  They  are  such  an  extraordinary 
shape,  potatoes — all  bumps  and  warts  and  hol¬ 
lows.  We  worked  steadily  for  five-and-twenty 
minutes,  and  did  four  potatoes.  Then  we  struck. 
We  said  we  should  require  the  rest  of  the  even¬ 
ing  for  scraping  ourselves. 

I  never  saw  such  a  thing  as  potato-scraping 
for  making  a  fellow  in  a  mess.  It  seemed  diffi¬ 
cult  to  believe  that  the  potato  scrapings  in  which 
Harris  and  I  stood,  half  smothered,  could  have 
come  off  four  potatoes.  It  shows  you  what  can 
be  done  with  economy  and  care. 

George  said  it  was  absurd  to  have  only  four 
potatoes  in  an  Irish  stew,  so  we  washed  half  a 
dozen  or  so  more,  and  put  them  in  without  peel- 


glmje  fptra  in  u  goat. 


21o 


mg.  We  also  put  ii;  a  cabbage  and  about  half  a 
peck  of  peas.  George  stirred  it  all  up,  and  then 
he  said  that  there  seemed  to  be  a  lot  of  room  to 
spare,  so  we  overhauled  both  the  hampers,  and 
picked  out  all  the  odds  and  ends  and  the  rem¬ 
nants,  and  added  them  to  the  stew.  There  were 
half  a  pork  pie  and  bit  of  cold  boiled  bacon  left, 
and  we  put  them  in.  Then  George  found  half  a 
tin  of  potted  salmon,  and  he  emptied  that  into  the 
pot. 

He  said  that  was  the  advantage  of  Irish  stew; 
you  got  rid  of  such  a  lot  of  things.  I  fished  out 
a  couple  of  eggs  that  had  got  cracked,  and  we 
put  those  in.  George  said  they  would  thicken 
the  gravy. 

I  forget  the  other  ingredients,  but  I  know 
nothing  was  wasted;  and  I  remember  that,  to¬ 
ward  the  end,  Montmorency,  who  had  evinced 
great  interest  in  the  proceedings  throughout, 
strolled  away  with  an  earnest  and  thoughtful  air, 
reappearing,  a  few  minutes  afterward,  with  a  dead 
water-rat  -in  his  mouth  which  he  evidently  wished 
to  present  as  his  contribution  to  the  dinner: 
whether  in  a  sarcastic  spirit,  or  with  a  genuine 
desire  to  assist,  I  can’t  say. 

We  had  a  discussion  as  to  whether  the  rat 
should  go  in  or  not.  Harris  said  that  he  thought 
it  would  be  all  right,  mixed  up  with  the  other 


2i6  Sfrtteje  in  a  gjOHt. 

things,  and  that  every  little  helped;  but  George 
stood  up  for  precedent.  He  said  he  had  never 
heard  of  water-rats  in  Irish  stew,  and  he  would 
rather  be  on  the  safe  side,  and  not  try  experi¬ 
ments. 

Harris  said: 

“If  you  never  try  a  new  thing,  how  can  you  tell 
what  it’s  like?  It’s  men  such  as  you  that  hamper 
the  world’s  progress.  Think  cf  the  man  who 
first  tried  German  sausage!” 

It  was  a  great  success,  that  Irish  stew.  I  don’t 
think  I  ever  enjoyed  a  meal  more.  There  was 
something  so  fresh  and  piquant  about  it.  One’s 
palate  gets  so  tired  of  the  old  hackneyed  things: 
here  was  a  dish  with  a  new  flavor,  with  a  taste  like 
nothing  else  on  earth. 

And  it  was  nourishing,  too.  As  George  said, 
there  was  good  stuff  in  it.  The  peas  and  pota¬ 
toes  might  have  been  a  bit  softer,  but  we  all  had 
good  teeth,  so  that  did  not  matter  much;  and  as 
for  the  gravy,  it  was  a  poem — a  little  too  rich, 
perhaps,  for  a  weak  stomach,  but  nutritious 

We  finished  up  with  tea  and  cherry  tart 
Montmorency  had  a  fight  with  the  kettle  during 
tea-time,  and  came  off  a  poor  second. 

Throughout  the  trip,  he  had  manifested  great 
curiosity  concerning  the  kettle.  He  would  sit 
and  watch  it  as  it  boiled,  with  a  puzzled  expres- 


5£hvcc  |>Xcu  in  a  gjcrat. 


21? 


sion,  and  would  try  and  rouse  it  every  now  and 
then  by  growling  at  it.  When  it  began  to  splut¬ 
ter  and  steam,  he  regarded  it  as  a  challenge,  and 
would  want  to  fight  it,  only,  at  that  precise  mo¬ 
ment,  some  one  would  always  dash  up  and  bear 
off  his  prey  before  he  could  get  at  it. 

To-day  he  determined  he  would  be  beforehand 
At  the  first  sound  the  kettle  made,  he  rose,  growl¬ 
ing,  and  advanced  toward  it  in  a  threatening  atti¬ 
tude.  It  was  only  a  little  kettle,  but  it  was  full  of 
pluck,  and  it  up  and  spit  at  him. 

“Ah!  would  ye!”  growled  Montmorency,  show¬ 
ing  his  teeth;  “I’ll  teach  ye  to  cheek  a  hardwork¬ 
ing,  respectable  dog;  ye  miserable,  long  nosed, 
dirty-looking  scoundrel,  ye.  Come  on !” 

And  he  rushed  at  that  poor  little  kettle,  and 
seized  it  by  the  spout. 

Then,  across  the  evening  stillness,  broke  a 
blood-curdling  yelp,  and  Montmorency  left  the 
boat,  and  did  a  constitutional  three  times  round 
the  island  at  the  rate  of  thirty-five  miles  an 
hour,  stopping  every  now  and  then  to  bury  his 
nose  in  a  bit  of  cool  mud. 

From  that  day  Montmorency  regarded  the  ket¬ 
tle  with  a  mixture  of  awe,  suspicion,  and  hate. 
Whenever  he  saw  it,  he  would  growl  and  back 
at  a  rapid  rate,  with  his  tail  shut  down,  and  the 
moment  it  was  put  upon  the  stove  he  would 


218 


gfetteje  f&m  iix  a  JBoai. 


promptly  climb  out  of  the  boat,  and  sit  on  the 
bank,  till  the  whole  tea  business  was  over 

George  got  out  his  banjo  after  supper,  and 
wanted  to  play  it,  but  Harris  objected:  he  said 
he  had  got  a  headache,  and  did  not  feel  strong 
enough  to  stand  it.  George  thought  the  music 
might  do  him  good — said  music  often  soothed 
the  nerves  and  took  away  a  headache;  and  he 
twanged  two  or  three  notes,  just  to  show  Harris 
what  it  was  like. 

/ 

Harris  said  he  would  rather  have  the  head¬ 
ache. 

George  has  never  learned  to  play  the  banjo 
to  this  day.  He  has  had  too  much  all-round  dis¬ 
couragement  to  meet.  He  tried  on  two  or  three 
evenings,  while  we  were  up  the  river,  to  get  a 
little  practice,  but  it  was  never  a  success.  Harris’s 
language  used  to  be  enough  to  unnerve  any  man; 
added  to  which,  Montmorency  would  sit  and 
howl  steadily,  right  through  the  performance.  It 
was  not  giving  the  man  a  fair  chance. 

‘‘What’s  he  want  to  howl  like  that  for  when 
I’m  playing?”  George  would  exclaim  indignantly, 
while  taking  aim  at  him  with  a  boot. 

“What  do  you  want  to  play  like  that  for  when 
he  is  howling?”  Harris  would  retort,  catching 
the  boot.  “You  let  him  alone.  He  can’t  help 


glxxzz  gXj ett  iu  a  Ipjorat. 


219 


howling.  He’s  got  a  musical  ear,  and  your  play¬ 
ing  makes  him  howl.” 

So  George  determined  to  postpone  study  of 
the  banjo  until  he  reached  home.  But  he  did  not 
get  much  opportunity  even  there.  Mrs.  P.  used 
to  come  up  and  say  she  was  very  sorry — for  her¬ 
self,  she  liked  to  hear  him — but  the  lady  upstairs 
was  in  a  very  delicate  state,  and  the  doctor  was 
afraid  it  might  injure  the  child. 

Then  George  tried  taking  it  out  with  him  late 
at  night,  and  practising  round  the  square.  But 
the  inhabitants  complained  to  the  police  about 
it,  and  a  watch  was  set  for  him  one  night,  and 
he  was  captured.  The  evidence  against  him  was 
very  clear,  and  he  was  bound  over  to  keep  the 
peace  for  six  months. 

He  seemed  to  lose  heart  in  the  business  after 
that.  He  did  make  one  or  two  feeble  efforts  to 
take  up  the  work  again  when  the  six  months  had 
elapsed,  but  there  was  always  the  same  coldness 
• — the  same  want  of  sympathy  on  the  part  of  the 
world  to  fight  against;  and,  after  a  while,  he 
despaired  altogether,  and  advertised  the  instru¬ 
ment  for  sale  at  a  great  sacrifice — ‘'owner  having 
no  further  use  for  same” — and  took  to  learning 
card  tricks  instead. 

It  must  be  disheartening  work  learning  a  mus¬ 
ical  instrument.  You  would  think  that  Society, 


220 


gtoeje  ptjen  in  a  gnat. 


i 


for  its  own  sake,  would  do  all  it  could  to  assist 
a  man  to  acquire  the  art  of  playing  a  musical  in¬ 
strument.  But  it  doesn’t! 

I  knew  a  young  fellow  once,  who  was  study¬ 
ing  to  play  the  bagpipes,  and  you  would  be  sur¬ 
prised  at  the  amount  of  opposition  he  had  to 
contend  with.  Why,  not  even  from  the  mem¬ 
bers  of  his  own  family  did  he  receive  what  you 
could  call  active  encouragement.  His  father  was 
dead  against  the  business  from  the  beginning, 
and  spoke  quite  unfeeling  on  the  subject. 

My  friend  used  to  get  up  early  in  the  morning 
to  practice,  but  he  had  to  give  that  plan  up,  be¬ 
cause  of  his  sister.  She  was  somewhat  religiously 
inclined,  and  she  said  it  seemed  such  an  awful 
thing  to  begin  the  day  like  that. 

So  he  sat  up  at  night  instead,  and  played  after 
the  family  had  gone  to  bed,  but  that  did  not  do, 
as  it  got  the  house  such  a  bad  name.  People, 
going  home  late,  would  stop  outside  to  listen, 
and  then  put  it  about  all  over  the  town,  the  next 
morning,  that  a  fearful  murder  had  been  com¬ 
mitted  at  Mr.  Jefferson’s  the  night  before;  and 
would  describe  how  they  had  heard  the  victim’s 
shrieks  and  the  brutal  oaths  and  curses  of  the 
murderer,  followed  by  the  prayer  for  mercy,  and 
the  last  dying  gurgle  of  the  corpse. 

So  they  let  him  practice  in  the  daytime,  in  the 


gtweje  |$tm  in  a  gtoat. 


221 


back-kitchen,  with  all  the  doors  shut;  but  his 
more  successful  passages  could  generally  be 
heard  in  the  sitting-room,  in  spite  of  these  pre¬ 
cautions,  and  would  affect  his  mother  almost  to 
tears. 

She  said  it  put  her  in  mind  of  her  poor  father 
(he  had  been  swallowed  by  a  shark,  poor  man, 
while  bathing  off  the  coast  of  New  Guinea — 
where  the  connection  came  in,  she  could  not  ex¬ 
plain). 

Then  they  knocked  im  a  little  place  for  him 
at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  about  quarter  of  a 
mile  from  the  house,  and  made  him  take  the  ma¬ 
chine  down  there  when  he  wanted  to  work  it; 
and  sometimes  a  visitor  would  come  to  the  house 
who  knew  nothing  of  the  matter,  and  they  would 
forget  to  tell  him  all  about  it,  and  caution  him, 
and  he  would  go  out  for  a  stroll  round  the  gar¬ 
den  and  suddenly  get  within  ear-shot  of  those 
bagpipes,  without  being  prepared  for  it,  or  know¬ 
ing  what  it  was.  If  he  were  a  man  of  strong  mind, 
it  only  gave  him  fits ;  but  a  person  of  mere  aver¬ 
age  intellect  it  usually  sent  mad. 

There  is,  it  must  be  confessed,  something  very 
sad  about  the  early  efforts  of  an  amateur  in  bag¬ 
pipes.  I  have  felt  that  myself  when  listening  to 
my  young  friend.  They  appear  to  be  a  trying  in¬ 
strument  to  perform  upon.  You  have  to  get 


gfxueje  ||Xj etx  iw  a  gjcrat. 


22  „ 

enough  breath  for  the  whole  tune  before  you 
start — at  least,  so  I  gathered  from  watching  Jeff¬ 
erson. 

He  would  begin  magnificently,  with  a  wild,  full, 
come-to-the-battle  sort  of  a  note,  that  quite 
roused  you.  But  he  would  get  more  and  more 
piano  as  he  went  on,  and  the  last  verse  generally 
collapsed  in  the  middle  with  a  sputter  and  a  hiss. 

You  want  to  be  in  good  health  to  play  the  bag¬ 
pipes. 

Young  Jefferson  only  learnt  to  play  one  tune 
on  those  bagpipes;  but  I  never  heard  any  com¬ 
plaints  about  the  insufficiency  of  his  repertoire — 
none  whatever.  This  tune  was  “The  Campbells 
are  Coming,  Hooray — Hooray!'’  so  he  said, 
though  his  father  always  held  that  it  was  “The 
Blue  Bells  of  Scotland.”  Nobody  seemed  quite 
sure  what  it  was  exactly,  but  they  all  agreed  that 
it  sounded  Scotch. 

Strangers  were  allowed  three  guesses,  and  most 
of  them  guessed  a  different  tune  each  time. 

Harris  was  disagreeable  after  supper, — I  think 
it  must  have  been  the  stew  that  had  upset  him: 
he  is  not  used  to  high  living — so  George  and  I 
left  him  in  the  boat,  and  settled  to  go  to  a  mouch 
round  Henley.  He  said  he  should  have  a  glass  of 
whisky  and  a  pipe,  and  fix  things  up  for  the 


Qftvzc  gXcu  in  a  goat. 


223 


night.  We  were  to  shout  when  we  returned,  and 
he  would  row  over  from  the  island  and  fetch  us. 

“Don’t  go  to  sleep,  old  man,”  we  said  as  we 
started. 

“Not  much  fear  of  that  while  this  stew’s  on,” 
he  grunted,  as  he  pulled  back  to  the  island. 

Henley  was  getting  ready  for  the  regatta,  and 
was  full  of  bustle.  We  met  a  goodish  number  of 
men  we  knew  about  the  town,  and  in  their  pleas¬ 
ant  company  the  time  slipped  by  somewhat 
quickly;  so  that  it  was  nearly  eleven  o’clock  be¬ 
fore  we  set  off  on  our  four-mile  walk  home — as 
we  had  learned  to  call  our  little  craft  by  this  time. 

It  was  a  dismal  night,  coldish,  with  a  thin  rain 
falling;  and  as  we  trudged  through  the  dark, 
silent  fields  talking  low  to  each  other,  and  won¬ 
dering  if  we  were  going  right  or  not,  we  thought 
of  the  cosy  boat,  with  the  bright  light  stream¬ 
ing  through  the  tight-drawn  canvas;  of  Harris 
and  Montmorency,  and  the  whisky,  and  wished 
we  were  there. 

We  conjured  up  the  picture  of  ourselves  in¬ 
side,  tired  and  a  little  hungry;  of  the  gloomy 
river  and  the  shapeless  trees;  and,  like  a  giant 
glow-worm  underneath  them,  our  dear  old  boat, 
so  snug  and  warm  and  cheerful.  We  could  see 
ourselves  at  supper  there,  pecking  away  at  cold 
meat,  and  passing  each  other  chunks  of  bread; 


224 


Jgltoje  pc m  in  a  gjcrat. 


we  could  hear  the  cheery  clatter  of  our  knives, 
the  laughing  voices,  filling  all  the  space,  and 
overflowing  through  the  opening  out  into  the 
night.  And  we  hurried  on  to  realize  the  vision. 

We  struck  the  tow-path  at  length,  and  that 
made  us  happy;  because  prior  to  this  we  had  not 
been  sure  whether  we  were  walking  toward  the 
river  or  away  from  it,  and  when  you  are  tired 
and  want  to  go  to  bed  uncertainties  like  that 
worry  you.  We  passed  Shiplake  as  the  clock 
was  striking  the  quarter  to  twelve;  and  then 
George  said,  thoughtfully: 

“You  don’t  happen  to  remember  which  of  the 
islands  it  was,  do  you?” 

“No,”  I  replied,  beginning  to  grow  thoughtful 
too,  “I  don’t.  How  many  are  there?” 

“Only  four,”  answered  George.  “It  will  be  all 
right  if  he’s  awake.” 

“And  if  not?”  I  queried;  but  we  dismissed  that 
train  of  thought. 

We  shouted  when  we  came  opposite  the  first 
island,  but  there  was  no  response;  so  we  went  to 
the  second,  and  tried  there,  and  obtained  the 
same  result. 

“Oh!  I  remember  now,”  said  George;  “it  was 
the  third  one.” 

And  we  ran  on  hopefully  to  the  third  one,  and 
hallooed. 


'ghxzz  BXctt  in  a  gnat. 


225 


No  answer! 

The  case  was  becoming  serious.  It  was  now 
past  midnight.  The  hotels  at  Shiplake  and  Hen¬ 
ley  would  be  crammed;  and  we  could  not  go 
round,  knocking  up  cottagers  and  householders 
in  the  middle  of  the  night,  to  know  if  they  let 
apartments!  George  suggested  walking  back  to 
Henley  and  assaulting  a  policeman  and  so  get¬ 
ting  a  night’s  lodging  in  the  station  house.  But 
then  there  was  the  thought,  “Suppose  he  only 
hits  us  back  and  refuses  to  lock  us  up !” 

We  could  not  pass  the  whole  night  fighting 
policemen.  Besides,  we  did  not  want  to  overdo 
the  thing  and  get  six  months. 

We  despairingly  tried  what  seemed  in  the  dark¬ 
ness  to  be  the  fourth  island,  but  met  with  no  bet¬ 
ter  success.  The  rain  was  coming  down  fast  now, 
’  and  evidently  meant  to  last.  We  were  wet  to 
the  skin,  and  cold  and  miserable.  We  began 
to  wonder  whether  there  were  only  four  islands 
or  more,  or  whether  we  were  near  the  islands  at 
all,  or  whether  we  were  anywhere  within  a  mile  of 
where  we  ought  to  be,  or  in  the  wrong  part  of  the 
river  altogether;  everything  looked  so  strange 
and  different  in  the  darkness.  We  began  to  un¬ 
derstand  the  suffering  of  the  Babes  in  the  Wood, 

Just  when  we  had  given  up  all  hope — yes,  I 
know  that  is  always  the  time  that  things  do  hap- 


226 


gfo^eje  gjXm  in  a  gSjcrat. 


pen  in  novels  and  tales;  but  I  can’t  help  it.  I 
resolved,  when  I  began  to  write  this  book,  that 
I  would  be  strictly  truthful  in  all  things;  and  so, 
I  will  be,  even  if  I  have  to  employ  hackneyed 
phrases  for  the  purpose. 

It  was  just  when  we  had  given  up  all  hope,  and 
I  must  therefore  say  so.  Just  when  we  had  given 
up  all  hope,  then,  I  suddenly  caught  sight,  a  little 
way  below  us,  of  a  strange,  weird  sort  of  glimmer 
flickering  among  the  trees  on  the  opposite  bank. 
For  an  instant  I  thought  of  ghosts:  it  was  such 
a  shadowy,  mysterious  light.  The  next  moment 
it  hashed  across  me  that  it  was  our  boat,  and  1 
sent  up  such  a  yell  across  the  water  that  made  the 
night  seem  to  shake  in  its  bed. 

We  waited  breathless  for  a  minute,  and  then 
—oh!  divinest  music  of  the  darkness — we  heard 
the  answering  bark  of  Montmorency.  We 
shouted  back  loud  enough  to  wake  the  Seven 
Sleepers — I  never  could  understand  myself  why 
it  should  take  more  noise  to  wake  seven  s’eepers 
than  one — and,  after  what  seemed  an  hour,  but 
what  was  really,  I  suppose,  about  five  minutes, 
we  saw  the  lighted  boat  creeping  slowly  over  the 
blackness,  and  heard  Harris’s  sleepy  voice  ask¬ 
ing  where  we  were. 

There  was  an  .unaccountable  strangeness  about 
Harris.  It  was  something  more  than  mere  ordi- 


gfttte je  fjj&etx  in  a  gjcrat. 


227 


nary  tiredness.  He  pulled  the  boat  against  a  part 
of  the  bank  from  which  it  was  quite  impossible 
for  us  to  get  into  it,  and  immediately  went  to 
sleep.  It  took  us  an  immense  amount  of  scream- 
•  ing  and  roaring  to  wake  him  up  again  and  put 
some  sense  into  him;  but  we  succeeded  at  last, 
and  got  safely  on  board. 

Harris  had  a  sad  expression  on  him,  so  We 
noticed,  when  we  got  into  the  boat.  He  gave  you 
the  idea  of  a  man  who  had  been  through  trouble. 
We  asked  if  anything  had  happened,  and  he 
said — 

“Swans !” 

It  seemed  we  had  moored  close  to  a  swan’s 
nest,  and,  soon  after  George  and  I  had  gone, 
the  female  swan  came  back,  and  kicked  up  a  row 
about  it.  Harris  had  chivied  her  off,  and  she  had 
gone  away,  and  fetched  up  her  old  man.  Harris 
said  he  had  had  quite  a  fight  with  these  two 
swans;  but  courage  and  skill  had  prevailed  in 
the  end,  and  he  had  defeated  them. 

Half  an  hour  afterward  they  returned  with 
eighteen  other  swans !  It  must  have  been  a  fear¬ 
ful  battle,  so  far  as  we  could  understand  Harris’s 
account  of  it.  The  swans  had  tried  to  drag  him 
and  Montmorency  out  of  the  boat  and  drown 
them ;  and  he  had  defended  himself  like  a  hero  for 
four  hours,  and  had  killed  the  lot,  and  they  had 


228 


gluxc  gXjcn  in  a  gjoat. 


all  paddled  away  to  die. 

“How  many  swans  did  you  say  there  were?” 
asked  George. 

“Thirty-two,”  replied  Harris,  sleepily. 

“You  said  eighteen  just  now”  said  George. 

“No,  I  didn’t,”  grunted  Harris;  “I  said  twelve. 
Think  I  can’t  count?” 

What  were  the  real  facts  about  these  swans 
we  never  found  out.  We  questioned  Harris  on 
the  subject  in  the  morning,  and  he  said,  “What 
swans?”  and  seemed  to  think  that  George  and  I 
had  been  dreaming. 

Oh,  how  delightful  it  was  to  be  safe  in  the  boat, 
after  our  trials  and  fears!  We  ate  a  hearty  sup¬ 
per,  George  and  I,  and  we  should  have  had  some 
toddy  after  it,  if  we  could  have  found  the  whisky, 
but  we  could  not.  We  examined  Harris  as  to 
what  he  had  done  with  it;  but  he  did  not  seem 
to  know  what  we  meant  by  “whisky,”  or  what 
we  were  talking  about  at  all.  Montmorency 
looked  as  if  he  knew  something,  but  said  nothing. 

I  slept  well  that  night,  and  should  have  slept 
better  if  it  had  not  been  for  Harris.  I  have  a 
vague  recollection  of  having  been  woke  up  at 
least  a  dozen  times  during  the  night  by  Harris 
wandering  about  the  boat  with  a  lantern,  looking 
for  his  clothes.  He  seemed  to  be  worrying  about 
his  clothes  all  night. 


Qlnczz  gXm  in  a  goat. 


22Q' 

Twice  he  routed  up  George  and  myself  to  see 
if  we  were  lying  on  his  trousers.  George  got 
quite  wild  the  second  time. 

“What  the  thunder  do  you  want  your  trousers 
for,  in  the  middle  of  the  night?”  he  asked,  in¬ 
dignantly.  “Why  don’t  you  lie  down,  and  go  to 
sleep?” 

I  found  him  in  trouble,  the  next  time  I  awoke, 

because  he  could  not  find  his  socks:  and  mv  last 

'  * 

hazy  remembrance  is  of  being  rolled  over  on  my 
side,  and  of  hearing  Harris  muttering  something 
about  its  being  an  extraordinary  thing  where  his 
umbrella  could  have  got  to. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

We  woke  late  the  next  morning,  and,  a' 
Harris’s  earnest  desire,  partook  of  a  plain  break’ 
fast,  with  “non  dainties”  Then  we  cleaned  up, 
and  put  everything  straight  (a  continual  labot, 
which  was  beginning  to  afford  me  a  pretty  clear 
insight  into  a  question  that  had  often  posed  me — 
namely,  how  a  woman  with  the  work  of  only  one 
house  on  her  hands  manages  to  pass  away  her 
time),  and,  at  about  ten,  set  out  on  what  we  had 
determined  should  be  a  good  day’s  journey. 


230 


gte&e  UXm  in  a 

We  agreed  that  we  would  pull  this  morning, 
•as  a  change  from  towing;  and  Harris  thought  the 
best  arrangement  would  be  that  George  and  I 
should  scull,  and  he  steer.  I  did  not  chime  in 
with  this  idea  at  all;  I  said  I  thought  Harris 
would  have  been  showing  a  more  proper  spirit 
if  he  had  suggested  that  he  and  George  should 
work,  and  let  me  rest  a  bit.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  I  was  doing  more  than  my  fair  share  of  the 
work  on  this  trip,  and  I  was  beginning  to  feel 
strongly  on  the  subject. 

It  always  does  seem  to  me  that  I  am  doing 
more  work  than  I  should  do.  It  is  not  that  I 
object  to  the  work,  mind  you;  I  like  work:  it 
fascinates  me.  I  can  sit  and  look  at  it  for  hours. 
I  love  to  keep  it  by  me:  the  idea  of  getting  rid 
of  it  nearly  breaks  my  heart. 

You  cannot  give  me  too  much  work;  to  ac¬ 
cumulate  work  has  almost  bee  ome  a  passion  with 
me;  my  study  is  so  full  of  it  now,  that  there  is 
hardly  an  inch  of  room  for  any  more.  I  shall 
have  to  throw  out  a  wing  soon. 

And  I  am  careful  of  my  work,  too.  Why, 
some  of  the  work  that  I  have  by  me  now  has 
been  in  my  possession  for  years  and  years,  and 
there  isn’t  a  finger  mark  on  it.  I  take  a  great 
pride  in  my  work;  I  take  it  down  now  and  then 


'ghxzz  ptm  in  a  gxrat* 


231 


and  dust  it.  No  man  keeps  his  work  in  a  better 
state  of  preservation  than  I  do. 

But,  though  I  crave  for  work,  I  still  like  to 
he  fair.  I  do  not  ask  for  more  than  my  proper 
share. 

But  I  get  it  without  asking  for  it — at  least,  so 
it  appears  to  me — and  this  worries  me. 

George  says  he  does  not  think  I  need  trouble 
myself  on  the  subject.  He  thinks  it  is  only  my 
overscrupulous  nature  that  makes  me  fear  I  am 
having  more  than  my  due ;  and  that,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  don’t  have  half  as  much  as  I  ought. 
But  I  expect  he  only  says  this  to  comfort  me. 

In  a  boat,  I  have  always  noticed  that  it  is  the 
fixed  idea  of  each  member  of  the  crew  that  he 
is  doing  everything.  Harris’s  notion  was,  that 
it  was  he  alone  who  had  been  working,  and  that 
both  George  and  I  had  been  imposing  upon  him. 
George,  on  the  other  hand,  ridiculed  the  idea 
of  Harris’s  having  done  anything  more  than  eat 
and  sleep,  and  had  a  cast-iron  opinion  that  it  was 
he — George  himself — who  had  done  all  the  labor 
worth  speaking  of. 

He  said  he  had  never  been  out  with  such  a 
couple  of  lazy  skulks  as  Harris  and  I. 

That  amused  Harris. 

“Fancy  old  George  talking  about  work!’"  he 
laughed;  “why,  about  half  an  hour  of  it  would 


282 


glxtxe  gfUu  in  a  gjoat. 

kill  him.  Have  you  ever  seen  George  work?* 
he  added,  turning  to  me. 

I  agreed  with  Harris  that  I  never  had — most 
certainly  not  since  we  had  started  on  this  trip. 

“Well,  I  don’t  see  how  you  can  know  much 
about  it,  one  way  or  the  other,”  George  retorted 
on  Harris;  “for  I’m  blest  if  you  haven’t  been 
asleep  half  the  time.  Have  you  ever  seen  Harris 
fully  awake,  except  at  meal-time?”  asked  George, 
addressing  me. 

Truth  compelled  me  to  support  George.  Har¬ 
ris  had  been  very  little  good  in  the  boat,  so  far 
as  helping  was  concerned,  from  the  beginning, 

“Well,  hang  it,  I’ve  done  more  than  old  J.,  any¬ 
how,”  rejoined  Harris. 

“Well,  you  couldn’t  very  well  have  done  less,” 
added  George. 

“I  suppose  J.  thinks  he  is  the  passenger,”  con¬ 
tinued  Harris. 

And  that  was  their  gratitude  to  me  for  having 
brought  them  and  their  wretched  old  boat  all 
the  way  up  from  Kingston,  and  for  having  super¬ 
intended  and  managed  everything  for  them,  and 
taken  care  of  them,  and  slaved  for  them.  It  is 
the  way  of  the  world. 

We  settled  the  present  difficulty  by  arranging 
that  Harris  and  George  should  scull  up  past 
Reading,  and  that  I  should  tow  the  boat  on  from 


gfttteje  I^Xett  in  a  goat. 


233 


there.  Pulling  a  heavy  boat  against  a  strong 
stream  has  few  attractions  for  me  now.  There 
was  a  time,  long  ago,  when  I  used  to  clamor  for 
the  hard  work ;  now  I  like  to  give  the  youngsters 
a  chance. 

I  notice  that  most  of  the  old  river  hands  are 
similarly  retiring,  whenever  there  is  any  stiff 
pulling  to  be  done.  You  can  always  tell  the  old 
river  hand  by  the  way  in  which  he  stretches  him¬ 
self  out  upon  the  cushions  at  the  bottom  of  the 
boat,  and  encourages  the  rowers  by  telling  them 
anecdotes  about  the  marvelous  feats  he  per¬ 
formed  last  season. 

“Call  what  you’re  doing  hard  work!”  he  drawls, 
between  his  contented  whiffs,  addressing  the  two 
perspiring  novices,  who  have  been  grinding  away 
steadily  up  stream  for  the  last  hour  and  a  half; 
“why,  Jim  Biffles  and  Jack  and  I,  last  season, 
pulled  up  from  Marlow  to  Goring  in  one  after¬ 
noon — never  stopped  once.  Do  you  remember 
that  Jack?” 

Jack,  who  has  made  himself  a  bed  up  in  the 
prow  of  all  the  rugs  and  coats  he  can  collect,  and 
who  has  been  lying  there  asleep  for  the  last  two 
hours,  partially  wakes  up  on  being  thus  appealed 
to,  and  recollects  all  about  the  matter,  and  also 
remembers  that  there  was  an  unusually  strong 


234  gtojejc  pirn  in  a  ifhrat. 

stream  against  them  all  the  way — likewise  a  stiff 
wind. 

“About  thirty-four  miles,  I  suppose,  it  must 
have  been,”  adds  the  first  speaker,  reaching  down 
another  cushion  to  put  under  his  head. 

“No — no;  don’t  exaggerate,  Tom,”  murmurs 
Jack,  reprovingly;  “thirty-three  at  the  outside.” 

And  Jack  and  Tom,  quite  exhausted  by  this 
conversational  effort,  drop  off  to  sleep  once  more. 
And  the  two  simple-minded  youngsters  at  the 
sculls  feel  quite  proud  of  being  allowed  to  row 
such  wonderful  oarsmen  as  Jack  and  Tom,  and 
strain  away  harder  than  ever. 

When  I  was  a  young  man,  I  used  to  listen  to 
these  tales  from  my  elders,  and  take  them  in, 
and  swallow  them,  and  digest  every  word  of  them, 
and  then  come  up  for  more;  but  the  new  genera¬ 
tion  do  not  seem  to  have  the  simple  faith  of  the 
old  times.  We — George,  Harris,  and  myself — 
took  a  “raw’un”  up  with  us  once  last  season,  and 
we  plied  him  with  the  customary  stretchers  about 
the  wonderful  things  we  had  done  all  the  way  up. 

We  gave  him  all  the  regular  ones — the  time 
honored  lies  that  have  done  duty  up  the  river 
with  every  boating  man  for  years  past — and 
added  seven  entirely  original  ones  that  we  had  in¬ 
vented  for  ourselves,  including  a  really  quite 
likely  story,  founded,  to  a  certain  extent,  on  an  all 


glxfje*  ptm  itx  a  goat. 


235 


but  true  episode,  which  had  actually  happened 
in  a  modified  degree  some  years  ago  to  friends  of 
ours — a  story  that  a  mere  child  could  have  be¬ 
lieved  without  injuring  itself  much. 

And  that  young  man  mocked  at  them  all  and 
wanted  us  to  repeat  the  feats  then  and  there,  and 
to  bet  us  ten  to  one  that  we  didn’t. 

We  got  to  chatting  about  our  rowing  experi¬ 
ences  this  morning,  and  to  recounting  stories  of 
our  first  efforts  in  the  art  of  oarsmanship.  My 
own  earliest  boating  recollection  is  of  five  of  us 
contributing  threepence  each  and  taking  out  a 
curiously  constructed  craft  on  the  Regent’s  Park 
lake,  drying  ourselves  subsequently  in  the  park- 
keeper’s  lodge. 

After  that,  having  acquired  a  taste  for  water, 
I  did  a  good  deal  of  rafting  in  various  suburban 
brickfields — an  exercise  providing  more  interest 
and  excitement  than  might  be  imagined,  espe¬ 
cially  when  you  are  in  the  middle  of  the  pond 
and  the  proprietor  of  the  materials  of  which  the 
craft  is  constructed  suddenly  appears  on  the  bank, 
with  a  big  stick  in  his  hand. 

Your  first  sensation  on  seeing  this  gentleman 
is  that,  somehow  or  other,  you  don’t  feel  equal 
to  company  and  conversation,  and  that,  if  you 
could  do  so  without  appearing  rude,  you  would 
rather  avoid  meeting  him;  and  your  object  is, 


*>36 


QJxvzz  ^izn  in  a  gjcral 


therefore,  to  get  off  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
pond  to  which  he  is,  and  to  go  home  quietly 
and  quickly,  pretending  not  to  see  him.  He,  on 
the  contrary,  is  yearning  to  take  you  by  the  hand, 
and  talk  to  you. 

It  appears  that  he  knows  your  father,  and  is 
intimately  acquainted  with  yourself,  but  this  does 
not  draw  you  toward  him.  He  says  he’ll  teach 
you  to  take  his  boards  and  make  a  raft  of  them ; 
but,  seeing  that  you  know  how  to  do  this  pretty 
well  already,  the  offer,  though  doubtless  kindly 
meant,  seems  a  superfluous  one  on  his  part,  and 
you  are  reluctant  to  put  him  to  any  trouble  by 
accepting  it. 

His  anxiety  to  meet  you,  however,  is  proof 
against  all  your  coolness,  and  the  enegetic  man¬ 
ner  in  which  he  dodges  up  and  down  the  pond 
so  as  to  be  on  the  spot  to  greet  you  when  you 
land  is  really  quite  flattering. 

If  he  be  of  a  stout  and  short-winded  build,  you 
can  easily  avoid  his  advances;  but,  when  he  is  of 
the  youthful  and  long-legged  type,  a  meeting  is 
inevitable.  The  interview  is,  however,  extremely 
brief,  most  of  the  conversation  being  on  his  part, 
your  remarks  being  mostly  of  an  exclamatory  and 
monosyllabic  order,  and  as  soon  as  you  can  tear 
yourself  away  you  do  so. 

I  devoted  some  three  months  to  rafting,  and, 


gftvjeje  pUtx  itx  ix  goat. 


231 


being  then  as  proficient  as  there  was  any  need  to 
be  at  that  branch  of  the  art,  I  determined  to  go  in 
for  rowing  proper,  and  joined  one  of  the  Lea 
boating  clubs. 

Being  out  in  a  boat  on  the  river  Lea,  especially 
on  Saturday  afternoons,  soon  makes  you  smart  at 
handling  a  craft,  and  spry  at  escaping  being  run 
down  by  roughs  or  swamped  by  barges;  and  it 
also  affords  plenty  of  opportunity  for  acquiring 
the  most  prompt  and  graceful  method  of  lying 
down  flat  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat  so  as  to  avoid 
being  chucked  out  into  the  river  by  passing  tow- 
lines. 

But  it  does  not  give  you  style.  It  was  not  till 
I  came  to  the  Thames  that  I  got  style.  My  style 
of  rowing  is  very  much  admired  now.  People 
sav  it  is  so  quaint. 

George  never  went  near  the  water  until  he  was 
sixteen.  Then  he  and  eight  other  gentlemen  of 
about  the  same  age  went  down  in  a  body  to 
Kew  one  Saturday,  with  the  idea  of  hiring  a 
boat  there,  and  pulling  to  Richmond  and  back;, 
one  of  their  number,  a  shock-headed  youth, 
named  Joskins,  who  had  once  or  twice  taken 
out  a  boat  on  the  Serpentine,  told  them  it  was 
jolly  fun,  boating. 

The  tide  was  running  out  pretty  rapidly  when 
they  reached  the  landing  stage,  and  there  was  a 


238 


gftfcje  m&jetx  in  a  IS  oat. 


stiff  breeze  blowing  across  the  river,  but  this  did 
not  trouble  them  at  all,  and  they  proceeded  to 
select  their  boat. 

There  was  an  eight-oared  racing  outrigger 
drawn  up  on  the  stage;  that  was  the  one  that  took 
their  fancy.  They  said  they’d  have  that  one, 
please.  The  boatman  was  away  and  only  his 
boy  was  in  charge.  The  boy  tried  to  damp  their 
ardor  for  the  outrigger,  and  showed  them  two 
or  three  very  comfortable-looking  boats  of  the 
family-party  build,  but  those  would  not  do  at  all ; 
the  outrigger  was  the  boat  they  thought  they 
would  look  best  in. 

So  the  boy  launched  it,  and  they  took  off  their 
coats  and  prepared  to  take  their  seats.  The  boy 
suggested  that  George,  who,  even  in  those  days, 
was  always  the  heavy  man  of  any  party,  should 
be  number  four.  George  said  he  should  be  happy 
to  be  number  four,  and  promptly  stepped  into 
bow’s  place,  and  sat  down  with  his  back  to  the 
stern.  They  got  him  into  his  proper  position 
at  last,  and  then  the  others  followed. 

A  particularly  nervous  boy  was  appointed  cox, 
and  the  steering  principle  explained  to  him  by 
Joskins.  Joskins  himself  took  stroke.  He  told 
the  others  that  it  was  simple  enough;  all  they  had 
to  do  was  to  follow  him. 

They  said  they  were  ready,  and  the  boy  on 


Q\ixzz  g&m  in  a  gjcrat.  239 

the  landing  stage  took  a  boat-hook  and  shoved 
him  off. 

What  then  followed  George  is  unable  to  de¬ 
scribe  in  detail.  He  has  a  confused  recollection 
of  having,  immediately  on  starting,  received  a 
violent  blow  in  the  small  of  the  back  from  the 
butt  end  of  number  five’s  scull,  at  the  same  time 
that  his  own  seat  seemed  to  disappear  from  un¬ 
der  him  by  magic,  and  leave  him  sitting  on  the 
boards.  He  also  noticed,  as  a  curious  circum¬ 
stance,  that  number  two  was  at  the  same  instant 
lying  on  his  back  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  with 
his  legs  in  the  air,  apparently  in  a  fit. 

They  passed  under  Kew  Bridge,  broadside,  at 
the  rate  of  eight  miles  an  hour,  Joskins  being  the 
only  one  who  was  rowing.  George,  on  recover¬ 
ing  his  seat,  tried  to  help  him,  but,  on  dipping 
his  oar  into  the  water,  it  immediately,  to  his  in¬ 
tense  surprise,  disappeared  under  the  boat,  and 
nearly  took  him  with  it. 

And  then  “cox”  threw  both  rudder  lines  over¬ 
board,  and  burst  into  tears. 

How  they  got  back  George  never  knew,  but 
it  took  them  just  forty  minutes.  A  dense  crowd 
watched  the  entertainment  from  Kew  Bridge 
with  much  interest,  and  everybody  shouted  out 
to  them  different  directions.  Three  times  they 
managed  to  get  their  boat  back  through  the  arch. 


£4® 


ghvce  BXcu  it%  a  goat. 


and  three  times  they  were  carried  under  it  again, 
^nd  every  time  “cox”  looked  up  and  saw  the 
bridge  above  him  he  broke  out  into  renewed 
sobs. 

George  said  he  little  thought  that  afternoon 
that  he  should  ever  come  to  really  like  boating. 

Harris  is  more  accustomed  to  sea  rowing  than 
to  river  work,  and  says  that,  as  an  exercise,  he 
prefers  it.  I  don’t.  I  remember  taking  a  small 
boat  out  at  Eastbourne  last  summer;  I  used  to 
do  a  good  deal  of  sea  rowing  years  ago,  and  I 
thought  I  should  be  all  right;  but  I  found  I  had 
forgotten  the  art  entirely.  When  one  scull  was 
deep  down  underneath  the  water,  the  other  would 
be  flourishing  wildly  about  in  the  air.  To  get  a 
grip  of  the  water  with  both  at  the  same  time  I 
had  to  stand  up.  The  parade  was  crowded  with 
nobility  and  gentry,  and  I  had  to  pull  past  them 
in  this  ridiculous  fashion.  I  landed  half-way 
down  the  beach,  and  secured  the  services  of  an 
old  boatman  to  take  me  back. 

I  like  to  watch  an  old  boatman  rowing,  espec¬ 
ially  one  who  has  been  hired  by  the  hour.  There 
is  something  so  beautifully  calm  and  restful  about 
his  method.  It  is  so  free  from  that  fretful  haste, 
that  vehement  striving,  that  is  every  day  becom¬ 
ing  more  and  more  the  bane  of  Nineteenth  Cen¬ 
tury  life.  He  is  not  forever  straining  himself  to 


QftviM  fj&ett  in  a  idoiit.  241 

pass  all  the  other  boats.  If  another  boat  over¬ 
takes  him  and  passes  him  it  does  not  annoy  him ; 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  they  all  do  overtake  him  and 
pass  him — all  those  that  are  going  his  way.  This 
would  trouble  and  irritate  some  people;  the 
sublime  equanimity  of  the  hired  boatman  under 
the  ordeal  affords  us  a  beautiful  lesson  against 
ambition  and  uppishness. 

Plain  practical  rowing  of  the  get-the-boat- 
along  order  is  not  a  very  difficult  art  to  acquire, 
but  it  takes  a  good  deal  of  practice  before  a 
man  feels  comfortable  when  rowing  past  girls. 
It  is  the  “time”  that  worries  a  youngster.  “It’s 
jolly  funny,’’  he  says,  as  for  the  twentieth  time 
within  five  minutes  he  disentagles  his  sculls  from 
yours:  “I  can  get  on  all  right  when  Pm  by  my' 
self!” 

To  see  two  novices  try  to  keep  time  with  one 
another  is  very  amusing.  Bow  finds  it  impossible 
to  keep  pace  with  stroke,  because  stroke  row's  in 
such  an  extraordinary  fashion.  Stroke  is  in¬ 
tensely  indignant  at  this,  and  explains  that  what 
^he  has  been  endeavoring  to  do  for  the  last  ten 
minutes  is  to  adapt  his  method  to  bow’s  limited 
capacity.  Bowr,  in  turn  then  becomes  insulted, 
and  requests  stroke  not  to  trouble  his  head  about 
him  (bow),  but  to  devote  his  mind  to  setting  a 
sensible  stroke. 


242 


glxvjcjc  iptm  in  a  goat. 


“Or,  shall  I  take  stroke?”  he  adds,  with  the 
evident  idea  that  that  would  at  once  put  the  whole 
matter  right. 

They  splash  along  for  another  hundred  yards 
with  still  mo.derate  success,  and  then  the  whole 
secret  of  their  trouble  bursts  upon  stroke  like  a 
flash  of  inspiration. 

“I  tell  you  what  it  is:  you’ve  got  my  sculls,” 
he  cries,  turning  to  bow;  “pass  yours  over.” 

“Well,  do  you  know,  I’ve  been  wondering  how 
it  was  I  couldn’t  get  on  with  these,”  answers  bow, 
quite  brightening  up,  and  most  willingly  assist¬ 
ing  in  the  exchange.  “Now  we  shall  be  all 
right.” 

But  they  are  not — not  even  then.  Stroke  has 
to  stretch  his  arms  nearly  out  of  their  sockets 
to  reach  his  sculls  now;while  bow’s  pair,  at  each 
recovery,  hit  him  a  violent  blow  in  the  chest. 
So  they  change  back  again,  and  come  to  the  con¬ 
clusion  that  the  man  has  given  them  the  wrong 
set  altogether;  and  over  their  mutual  abuse  of 
this  man  they  become  quite  friendly  and  sym¬ 
pathetic. 

George  said  he  had  often  longed  to  take  to 
punting  for  a  change.  Punting  is  not  as  easy 
as  it  looks.  As  in  rowing,  you  soon  learn  how  to 
get  along  and  handle  the  craft,  but  it  takes  long 


gt xxzz  fptjcu  lit  a  ^xrat. 


243 


practice  before  you  can  do  this  with  dignity  and 
without  getting  the  water  all  up  your  sleeve. 

One  young  man  I  knew  had  a  very  sad  acci¬ 
dent  happen  to  him  the  first  time  he  went  punt¬ 
ing.  He  had  been  getting  on  so  well  that  he  had 
grown  quite  cheeky  over  the  business,  and  was 
walking  up  and  down  the  punt,  working  his  pole 
with  a  careless  grace  that  was  quite  fascinating 
to  watch.  Up  he  would  march  to  the  head  of  the 
punt,  plant  his  pole,  and  then  run  along  right 
to  the  other  end,  just  like  an  old  punter.  Oh! 
it  was  grand. 

And  it  would  all  have  gone  on  being  grand  if 
he  had  not,  unfortunately,  while  looking  round 
to  enjoy  the  scenery,  taken  just  one  step  more 
than  there  was  any  necessity  for,  and  walked  off 
the  punt  altogether.  The  pole  was  firmly  fixed 
in  the  mud,  and  he  was  left  clinging  to  it  while 
the  punt  drifted  away.  It  was  an  undignified 
position  for  him.  A  rude  boy  on  the  bank  im¬ 
mediately  yelled  oqt  to  a  lagging  chum  to  “hurry 
up  and  see  a  real  monkey  on  a  stick.” 

I  could  not  go  to  his  assistance  because,  as 
ill-luck  would  have  it,  we  had  not  taken  the 
proper  precaution  to  bring  out  a  spare  pole  with 
us.  I  could  only  sit  and  look  at  him.  His  ex¬ 
pression  as  the  pole  slowly  sank  with  him  I  shall 
never  forget;  there  was  so  much  thought  in  it. 


2\t 


gtxvjeje  gtXcn  itx  a  goat. 


I  watched  him  gently  let  down  into  the  water, 
and  saw  him  scramble  out,  sad  and  wet.  I  could 
not  help  laughing,  he  looked  such  a  ridiculous 
figure.  I  continued  to  chuckle  to  myself  about  it 
for  some  time,  and  then  it  was  suddenly  forced 
in  upon  me  that  really  I  had  got  very  little  to 
laugh  at  when  I  came  to  think  of  it.  Here  was 
I  alone  in  a  punt,  without  a  pole,  drifting  help¬ 
lessly  down  mid-stream — possibly  toward  a  weir. 

I  began  to  feel  very  indignant  with  my  friend 
for  having  stepped  overboard  and  gone  off  in 
that  way.  He  might,  at  all  events,  have  left  me 
the  pole. 

I  drifted  on  for  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  and 
then  I  came  in  sight  of  a  fishing-punt  moored 
in  mid-stream,  in  which  sat  two  old  fishermen. 
They  saw  me  bearing  down  upon  them,  and  they 
called  out  to  me  to  keep  out  of  their  way. 

“I  can’t,”  I  shouted  back. 

“But  you  don’t  try,”  they  answered. 

I  explained  the  matter  to  them  when  I  got 
nearer,  and  they  caught  me  and  lent  me  a  pole. 
The  weir  was  just  fifty  yards  below.  I  am  glad 
they  happened  to  be  there. 

The  first  time  I  went  punting  was  in  the  com¬ 
pany  with  three  other  fellows;  they  were  going 
to  show  me  how  to  do  it.  We  could  not  all  start 
together,  so  I  said  I  would  go  down  first  and  get 


$tmje  l$Utt  in  a  gnat. 


245 


out  the  punt,  and  then  I  could  potter  about  and 
practice  a  bit  until  they  came. 

I  could  not  get  a  punt  out  that  afternoon,  they 
were  all  engaged;  so  I. had  nothing  else  to  do 
but  to  sit  down  on  the  bank,  watching  the  river, 
and  waiting  for  my  friends. 

I  had  not  been  sitting  there  long  before  my 
attention  became  attracted  to  a  man  in  a  punt 
who,  I  noticed  with  some  surprise,  wore  a  jacket 
and  cap  exactly  like  mine.  He  was  evidently 
a  novice  at  punting,  and  his  performance  was 
most  interesting.  You  never  knew  what  was  go¬ 
ing  to  happen  when  he  put  the  pole  in;  he  evi¬ 
dently  did  not  know  himself.  Sometime  he  shot 
up  stream  and  sometimes  he  shot  down  stream 
*  and  at  other  times  he  simply  spun  round  and 
came  up  the  other  side  of  the  pole.  And  with 
every  result  he  seemed  equally  surprised  and  an¬ 
noyed. 

The  people  about  the  river  began  to  get  quite 
absorbed  in  him  after  a  while,  and  to  make  bets 
with  one  another  as  to  what  would  be  the  out¬ 
come  of  his  next  push. 

In  the  course  of  time  my  friends  arrived  on 
the  opposite  bank,  and  they  stopped  and  watched 
him  too.  His  back  was  toward  them,  and  they 
only  saw  his  jacket  and  cap.  From  this  they 
immediately  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  it 


246 


gtaee  fputt  jtw  a  ISaa*. 


was  I,  their  beloved  companion,  who  was  making 
an  exhibition  of  himself,  and  their  delight  knew 
no  bounds.  They  commenced  to  chaff  him  un* 
mercifully. 

I  c  did  not  grasp  their  mistake  at  first,  and  I 
thought,  “How  rude  of  them  to  go  on  like  that, 
with  a  perfect  stranger,  too!”  But  before  I  could 
call  out  and  reprove  them,  the  explanation  of  the 
matter  occurred  to  me,  and  I  withdrew  behind  a 
tree. 

Oh,  how  they  enjoyed  themselves,  ridiculing 
that  young  man!  For  five  good  minutes  they 
stood  there,  shouting  ribaldry  at  him,  deriding 
him,  mocking  him,  jeering  at  him.  They  pep¬ 
pered  him  with  stale  jokes,  they  even  made  a  few 
new  01:  *s  and  threw  at  him.  They  hurled  at 
him  all  the  private  family  jokes  belonging  to  our 
set,  and  which  must  have  been  perfectly  unin¬ 
telligible  to  him.  And  then,  unable  to  stand 
their  brutal  jibes  any  longer,  he  turned  round  on 
them,  and  they  saw  his  face! 

I  was  glad  to  notice  that  they  had  sufficient 
decency  left  in  them  to  look  very  foolish.  They 
explained  to  him  that  they  had  thought  he  was 
some  one  they  knew.  They  said  they  hoped  he 
would  not  deem  them  capable  of  so  insulting 
any  one  except  a  personal  friend  of  their  own. 

Of  course  their  having  mistaken  him  for  a 


glxvec  glen  itx  a  gcnxt. 


24? 


friend  excused  it.  I  remember  Harris  telling  me 
once  of  a  bathing  experience  he  had  at  Boulogne. 
He  was  swimming  about  there  near  the  beach, 
when  he  felt  himself  suddenly  seized  Dy  the  neck 
from  behind,  and  forcibly  plunged  under  water 
He  struggled  violently,  but  whoever  had  got  hold 
of  him  seemed  to  be  a  perfect  Hercules  in 
strength,  and  all  his  efforts  to  escape  were  un¬ 
availing.  He  had  given  up  kicking,  and  was  try¬ 
ing  to  turn  his  thoughts  upon  solemn  things, 
when  his  captor  released  him. 

He  regained  his  feet,  and  looked  round  for  his 
would-be  murderer.  The  assassin  was  standing 
close  by  him  laughing  heartily;  but  the  moment 
he  caught  sight  of  Harris’s  face,  as  it  emerged 
from  the  water,  he  started  back  and  seemed  quite 
concerned. 

“I  really  beg  your  pardon,”  he  stammered,  con¬ 
fusedly,  “but  I  took  you  for  a  friend  of  mine!” 

Harris  thought  it  was  lucky  for  him  the  man 
had  not  mistaken  him  for  a  relation,  or  he  would 
probably  have  been  drowned  outright. 

Sailing  is  a  thing  that  wants  knowledge  and 
practice  too — though,  as  a  boy,  I  did  not  think 
so.  I  had  an  idea  it  came  natural  to  a  body,  like 
rounders  and  touch.  I  knew  another  boy  who 
held  this  view  likewise,  and  so,  one  windy  day, 
we  thought  we  would  try  the  sport.  We  were 


248 


2&m  in  a  gout. 


stopping  down  at  Yarmouth,  and  we  decided  we 
would  go  for  a  trip  up  the  Yare.  We  hired  a 
sailing  boat  at  the  yard  bv  the  bridge  and  started 
off. 

“It’s  rather  a  rough  day,”  said  the  man  to  us, 
as  we  put  off ;  “better  take  in  a  reef  and  luff  sharp 
when  you  get  round  the  bend.” 

We  said  we  would  make  a  point  oi  it,  and  left 
him  with  a  cheery  “Good-morning,”  wondering 
to  ourselves  how  you  “luffed,”  and  where  we  were 
to  get  a  “reef”  from,  and  what  we  were  to  do  with 
it  when  we  had  got  it. 

We  rowed  until  we  were  out  of  sight  of  the 
town,  and  then,  with  a  wide  stretch  of  water  in 
front  us,  and  the  wind  blowing  a  perfect  hurri¬ 
cane  across  it,  we  felt  that  the  time  had  come  to 
commpt^;  operations. 

Hector — I  think  that  was  his  name — went  on 
pulling  while  I  unrolled  the  sail.  It  seemed  a 
complicated  job,  but  I  accomplished  it  at  length, 
and  then  came  the  question,  which  was  the  top 
end? 

By  a  sort  of  natural  instinct,  we  of  course, 
eventually  decided  that  the  bottom  was  the  top, 
and  set  to  work  to  fix  it  upside-down.  But  it 
was  a  long  time  before  we  could  get  it  up,  either 
that  way  or  any  other  way.  The  impression  on 
the  mind  of  the  sail  seemed  to  be  that  we  were 


glxvjcje  pUu  itx  a  goat. 


249 


ptaving  at  funerals,  and  that  I  was  the  corpse 
and  itself  was  the  winding-sheet 

When  it  found  that  this  was  not  the  idea,  it 
hit  me  over  the  head  with  the  boom,  and  refused 
to  do  anything. 

“Wet  it,”  said  Hector;  “drop  it  over  and  get  it 
wet” 

He  said  people  in  ships  always  wetted  the  sails 
before  they  put  them  up.  So  I  wetted  it;  but  that 
only  made  matters  worse  than  they  were  before. 
A  dry  sail  clinging  to  your  legs  and  wrapping 
itself  around  your  head  is  not  pleasant,  but,  when 
the  sail  is  sopping  wet,  it  becomes  quite  vexing. 

We  did  get  the  thing  up  at  last,  the  two  of  us 
together.  We  fixed  it,  not  exactly  upside  down 
— more  sideways  like — and  we  tied  it  up  to  the 
mast  with  the  painter,  which  we  cut  off  for  the 
purpose. 

That  the  boat  did  not  upset  I  simply  state  as 
a  fact.  Why  it  did  not  upset  I  am  unable  to  offer 
any  reason.  I  have  often  thought  about  the  mat¬ 
ter  since,  but  I  have  never  succeeded  in  arriv¬ 
ing  at  any  satisfactory  explanation  of  the  phe¬ 
nomenon. 

Possibly  the  result  may  have  been  brought 
about  by  the  natural  obstinacy  of  all  things  in 
this  world.  The  boat  may  possibly  have  come 
to  the  conclusion,  judging  from  a  cursory  view 


250 


gtirsje  pltn  in  a  Ipjcrat, 


of  our  behavior,  that  we  had  come  out  for  u 
morning’s  suicide,  and  had  thereupon  determined 
to  disappoint  us.  That  is  the  only  suggestion  I 
can  offer. 

By  clinging  like  grim  death  to  the  gunwale,  we 
just  managed  to  keep  inside  the  boat,  but  it  was 
exhausting  work.  Hector  said  that  pirates  and 
other  seafaring  people  generally  lashed  the  rud¬ 
der  to  something  or  other,  and  hauled  in  the 
main  top- jib,  during  severe  squalls,  and  thought 
we  ought  to  try  to  do  something  of  the  kind ;  but 
I  was  for  letting  her  have  her  head  to  the  wind. 

As  my  advice  was  by  far  the  easiest  to  follow, 
we  ended  by  adopting  it,  and  contrived  to  em¬ 
brace  the  gunwale  and  give  her  her  head. 

The  boat  traveled  up  stream  for  about  a  mile 
at  a  pace  I  have  never  sailed  at  since,  ana  don’t 
want  to  again.  Then,  at  a  bend,  she  heeled  over 
till  half  her  sail  was  under  water.  Then  she 
righted  herself  by  a  miracle  and  flew  for  a  long, 
low  bank  of  soft  mud. 

That  mud-bank  saved  us.  The  boat  ploughed 
its  way  into  the  middle  of  it  and  then  stuck. 
Finding  that  we  were  once  more  able  to  move 
according  to  our  ideas,  instead  of  being  pitched 
and  tiirown  about  like  peas  in  a  bladder,  we  crept 
forward  and  cut  down  the  sail. 

We  had  enough  sailing.  We  did  not  want  to 


gfttteje  in  a  ggjorai. 


overdo  the  thing  and  get  a  surfeit  of  it.  We  had 
had  a  sail — a  good,  all  round,  exciting,  interest¬ 
ing  sail — and  now  we  thought  we  would  have  a 
row,  just  for  a  change  like. 

We  took  the  sculls  and  tried  to  push  the  boat 
the  mud,  and,  in  doing  so,  we  broke  one  of  the 
sculls.  After  that  we  proceeded  with  great  cau¬ 
tion,  but  they  were  a  wretched  old  pair  and  the 
second  one  cracked  almost  easier  than  the  first, 
*nd  left  us  helpless. 

The  mud  stretched  out  for  about  a  hundred 
yards  in  front  of  us,  and  behind  us  was  the  water. 
The  only  thing  to  be  done  was  to  sit  and  wait 
until  some  one  came  by. 

It  was  not  the  sort  of  day  to  attract  people 
out  on  the  river,  and  it  was  three  hours  before 
a  soul  came  in  sight.  It  was  an  old  fisherman 
who,  with  immense  difficulty,  at  last  rescued  us, 
and  we  were  towed  back  in  an  ignominious  fash¬ 
ion  to  the  boat-yard. 

What  between  tipping  the  man  who  had 
brought  us  home,  and  paying  for  the  broken 
sculls,  and  fcr  having  been  out  four  hours  and  a 
half,  it  cost  us  a  pretty  considerable  number  of 
weeks’  pocket-money,  that  sail.  But  w*e  learned 
experience,  and  they  say  that  is  always  cheap  at 
any  price. 


Stress  pim  in  a  goal* 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

We  came  in  sight  of  Reading  about  eleven. 
The  river  is  dirty  and  dismal  here.  One  does  not 
lingei  in  the  neighborhood  of  Reading.  The 
town  itself  is  a  famous  old  place,  dating  from  the 
dim  days  of  King  Ethelred,  when  the  Danes 
anchored  their  warships  in  the  Kennet,  and 
started  from  Reading  to  ravage  all  the  land  of 
Wessex;  and  here  Ethelred  and  his  brother  Al¬ 
fred  fought  and  defeated  them,  Ethelred  doing 
the  praying  and  Alfred  the  fighting. 

In  later  years,  Reading  seems  to  have  been  re¬ 
garded  as  a  handy  place  to  run  down  to,  when 
matters  were  becoming  unpleasant  in  London. 
Parliament  generally  rushed  off  to  Reading  when¬ 
ever  there  was  a  plague  on  at  Westminster;  and 
in  1625  the  Law  followed  suit,  and  all  the  courts 
were  held  at  Reading.  It  must  have  been  worth 
while  having  a  mere  ordinary  plague  now  and 
then  in  London  to  get  rid  of  both  the  lawyers  and 
the  Parliament. 

During  the  Parliamentary  struggle,  Reading 
was  besieged  by  the  Earl  of  Essex,  and  a  quarter 
of  a  century  later,  the  Prince  of  Orange  routed 
King  James’s  troops  there.  * 


IQixxzz  iptett  itx  a  goat. 


253 


Henry  I.  lies  buried  at  Reading,  in  the  Bene¬ 
dictine  abbey  founded  by  him  there,  the  ruins  of 
which  may  still  be  seen ;  and,  in  this  same  abbey, 
great  John  of  Gaunt  was  married  to  the  Lady 
Blanche. 

At  Reading  lock  we  came  up  with  a  steam 
launch,  belonging  to  some  friends  of  mine,  and 
they  towed  us  up  to  within  about  a  mile  of  Streat- 
ley.  It  is  very  delightful  being  towed  up  by  a 
launch.  I  prefer  it  myself  to  rowing.  The  run 
would  have  been  more  delightful  still,  if  it  had 
not  been  for  a  lot  of  wretched  small  boats  that 
were  continually  getting  in  the  way  of  our  launch, 
and,  to  avoid  running  down  which,  we  had  to  be 
continually  easing  and  stopping.  It  is  really 
most  annoying,  the  manner  in  which  these  row¬ 
ing  boats  get  in  the  way  of  one’s  launch  up  the 
river;  something  ought  to  be  done  to  stop  it. 

And  they  are  so  confoundedly  impertinent, 
too,  over  it.  You  can  whistle  till  you  nearly 
burst  your  boiler  before  they  will  trouble  them¬ 
selves  to  hurry.  I  would  have  one  or  two  of  them 
run  down  now  and  then,  if  I  had  my  way,  just 
to  teach  them  all  a  lesson. 

The  river  becomes  very  lovely  from  a  little 
above  Reading.  The  railway  rather  spoils  it  near 
Tilehurst,  but  from  Mapledurham  up  to  Streat- 
ley  it  is  glorious.  A  little  above  Mapledurham 


254 


gtoejc  BXcu  a  28oat. 


lock,  you  pass  Hardwick  House,  where  Charles 
I.  played  bowls.  The  neighborhood  of  Pang- 
bourne,  where  the  quaint  little  Swan  Inn  stands, 
must  be  as  familiar  to  the  habitues  of  the  Art 
Exhibitions  as  it  is  to  its  own  inhabitants. 

My  friends’  launch  cast  us  loose  just  below 
the  grotto,  and  then  Harris  wanted  to  make  out 
that  it  was  my  turn  to  pull.  This  seemed  to  me 
most  unreasonable.  It  had  been  arranged  in  the 
morning  that  I  should  bring  the  boat  up  to  three 
miles  above  Reading.  Well,  here  we  were,  ten 
miles  above  Reading!  Surely  it  was  now  their 
turn  again. 

I  could  not  get  either  George  or  Harris  to  see 
the  matter  in  its  proper  light,  however;  so,  to 
save  argument,  I  took  the  sculls.  I  had  not  been 
pulling  for  more  than  a  minute  or  so,  when 
George  noticed  something  black  floating  on  the 
water,  and  we  drew  up  to  it.  George  leant  over, 
as  we  neared  it,  and  laid  hold  of  it.  And  then 
he  drew  back  with  a  cry,  and  a  blanched  face. 

It  was  the  dead  body  of  a  woman.  It  lay  very 
lightly  on  the  water,  and  the  face  was  sweet  and 
calm.  It  was  not  a  beautiful  face;  it  was  too  pre¬ 
maturely  aged-looking,  too  thin  and  drawn,  to 
be  that;  but  it  was  a  gentle,  lovable  face,  in 
spite  of  its  stamp  of  pinch  and  poverty,  and  upon 
it  was  that  look  of  restful  peace  that  comes  to  the 


Jgfttteje  gXcn  in  a  gloat 


255 


faces  of  the  sick  sometimes  when  at  last  the  pain 
has  left  them. 

Fortunately  for  us — we  having  no  desire  to  be 
kept  hanging  about  coroner’s  courts — some  men 
on  the  bank  had  seen  the  body  too,  and  now  took 
charge  of  it  from  us. 

We  found  out  the  woman’s  story  afterward.  Of 
course  it  was  the  old,  old  vulgar  tragedy.  She 
had  loved  and  been  deceived — or  had  deceived 
herself.  Anyhow,  she  had  sinned — some  of  us 
do  now  and  then — and  her  family  and  friends, 
naturally  shocked  and  indignant,  had  closed  their 
doors  against  her. 

Left  to  fight  the  world  alone,  with  the  mill¬ 
stone  of  her  shame  around  her  neck,  she  had 
sunk  ever  lower  and  lower.  For  a  while  she  had 
kept  both  herself  and  the  child  on  the  twelve  shill¬ 
ings  a  week  that  twelve  hours’  drudgery  a  day 
procured  her,  paying  six  shillings  out  of  it  for  the 
child,  and  keeping  her  own  body  and  soul  tch 
gether  on  the  remainder. 

Six  shillings  a  week  does  not  keep  body  and 
soul  together  very  unitedly.  They  want  to  get 
away  from  each  other  when  there  is  only  such 
a  very  slight  bond  as  that  between  them ;  and  one 
day,  I  suppose,  the  pain  and  the  dull  monotony 
of  it  all  had  stood  before  her  eyes  plainer  than 
usual,  and  the  mocking  spectre  had  frightened 


256 


HJIxrjcjc  |$Ut%  in  a  |§joat. 


her.  She  had  made  one  last  appeal  to  friends, 
but  against  the  chill  wall  of  their  respectability, 
the  voice  of  the  erring  outcast  fell  unheeded;  and 
then  she  had  gone  to  see  her  child — had  held  it 
in  her  arms  and  kissed  it,  in  a  weary,  dull  sort  of 
way,  and  without  betraying  any  particular  emo¬ 
tion  of  any  kind,  and  had  left  it,  after  putting  into 
its  hand  a  penny  box  of  chocolate  she  had  bought 
it,  and  afterward,  with  her  last  few  shillings,  had 
taken  a  ticket  and  come  down  to  Goring. 

It  seemed  that  the  bitterest  thoughts  of  her  life 
must  have  centered  about  the  wooded  reaches 
and  the  bright  green  meadows  around  Goring; 
but  women  strangely  hug  the  knife  that  stabs 
them,  and,  perhaps,  amidst  the  gall,  there  may 
have  mingled  also  sunny  memories  of  sweetest 
hours  spent  upon  those  shadowed  deeps  over 
which  the  great  trees  bend  their  branches  down 
so  low. 

She  had  wandered  about  the  woods  by  the 
river’s  brink  all  day,  and  then,  when  evening  fell 
and  the  gray  twilight  spread  its  dusky  robe  upon 
the  waters,  she  stretched  her  arms  out  to  the  silent 
river  that  had  known  her  sorrow  and  her  joy. 
And  the  old  river  had  taken  her  into  its  gentle 
arms,  and  had  laid  her  weary  head  upon  its 
bosom,  and  had  hushed  away  the  pain. 

Thus  had  she  sinned  in  all  things — sinned  in 


IJIivcc  fjpUn  itx  a  3|jtrat. 


257 


living  and  in  dying.  God  help  her!  and  all  other 
sinners,  if  any  more  there  be. 

Goring  on  the  left  bank  and  Streatley  on  the 
right  are  both  or  either  charming  places  to  stay 
at  for  a  few  days.  The  reaches  down  to  Pang- 
bourne  woo  one  for  a  sunny  sail  or  for  a  moon¬ 
light  row,  and  the  country  round  about  is  full 
of  beauty.  We  had  intended  to  push  on  to  Wall¬ 
ingford  that  day,  but  the  sweet,  smiling  face  of 
the  river  here  lured  us  to  linger  for  a  while;  and 
so  we  left  our  boat  at  the  bridge,  and  went  up 
into  Streatley,  and  lunched  at  the  “Bull,”  much 
to  Montmorency’s  satisfaction. 

They  say  that  the  hills  on  each  side  of  the 
stream  here  once  joined  and  formed  a  barrier 
across  what  is  now  the  Thames,  and  that  then  the 
river  ended  there  above  Goring  in  one  vast  lake. 
I  am  not  in  a  position  either  to  contradict  or 
affirm  this  statement  I  simply  offer  it. 

It  is  an  ancient  place,  Streatley,  dating  back, 
like  most  river-side  towns  and  villages,  to  British 
and  Saxon  times.  Goring  is  not  nearly  so  pretty 
a  little  spot  to  stop  at  as  Streatley,  if  you  have 
your  choice;  but  it  is  passing  fair  enough  in  its 
way,  and  is  nearer  the  railway  in  case  you  want 
to  slip  off  without  paying  your  hotel  bill. 


258 


Jgfatteje  pCm  in  a  gxrat. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

We  stayed  two  days  at  Streatley,  and  got  our 
clothes  washed.  We  had  tried  washing  them 
ourselves,  in  the  river,  under  George’s  superin¬ 
tendence,  and  it  had  been  a  failure.  Indeed  it 
had  been  more  than  a  failure,  because  we  were 
worse  oft  after  we  had  washed  our  clothes  than 
we  were  before.  Before  we  had  washed  them, 
they  had  been  very,  very  dirty,  it  is  true;  but  they 
were  just  wearable.  After  we  had  washed  them — 
well,  the  river  between  Reading  and  Henley  was 
much  cleaner,  after  we  had  washed  our  clothes 
in  it,  than  it  was  before.  All  the  dirt  contained 
in  the  river  between  Reading  and  Henley,  we 
collected,  during  that  wash,  and  worked  it  into 
our  clothes. 

The  washerwoman  at  Streatley  said  she  felt  she 
owed  it  to  herself  to  charge  us  just  three  times 
the  usual  prices  for  that  wash.  She  said  it  had 
not  been  like  washing,  it  had  been  more  in  the 
nature  of  excavating.. 

We  paid  the  bill  without  a  murmur. 

The  neighborhood  of  Streatley  and  Goring  is 
a  great  fishing  center.  There  is  some  excellent 
fishing  to  be  had  here.  The  river  abounds  in 


glxvjcje  I^Xcu  in  a  goat. 


259 


pike,  roach,  dace,  gudgeon,  and  eels,  just  here; 
and  you  can  sit  and  fish  for  them  all  day 

Some  people  do.  They  never  catch  them.  I 
never  knew  anybody  catch  anything,  up  the 
Thames,  except  minnows  and  dead  cats,  but  that 
has  nothing  to  do,  of  course,  with  fishing!  The 
local  fisherman’s  guide  doesn’t  say  a  word  about 
catching  anything.  All  it  says  is  the  place  is  “a 
good  station  for  fishing;”  and,  from  what  I  have 
seen  of  the  district,  I  am  quite  prepared  to  bear 
out  this  statement. 

There  is  no  spot  in  the  world  where  you  can 
get  more  fishing,  or  where  you  can  fish  for  a 
longer  period.  Some  fishermen  come  here  and 
fish  for  a  day,  and  others  stop  and  fish  for  a 
month.  You  can  hang  on  and  fish  for  a  year, 
if  you  want  to:  it  will  be  all  the  same. 

The  Angler’s  Guide  to  the  Thames  says  that 
“jack  and  perch  are  also  to  be  had  about  here,” 
but  there  the  Angler’s  Guide  is  wrong.  Jack  and 
perch  may  be  about  there.  Indeed,  I  know  for 
a  fact  that  they  are.  You  can  see  them  there  in 
shoals,  when  you  are  out  for  a  walk  along  the 
banks ;  they  come  and  stand  half  out  of  the  water 
with  their  mouths  open  for  biscuits.  Arnd,  if 
you  go  for  a  bathe,  they  crowd  round,  and  get 
in  your  way,  and  irritate  you  But  they  are  not 


260 


%Jxxzz  ©%j eu  in  a  goat. 


to  be  “had”  by  a  bit  of  worm  on  the  end  of  a  hook, 
nor  anything  like  it — not  they! 

I  am  not  a  good  fisherman  myself.  I  devoted 
a  considerable  amount  of  attention  to  the  subject 
at  one  time,  and  was  getting  on,  as  I  thought, 
fairly  well;  but  the  old  hands  told  me  that  I 
should  never  be  any  real  good  at  it,  and  advised 
me  to  give  it  up.  They  said  that  I  was  an  ex¬ 
tremely  neat  thrower,  and  that  I  seemed  to  have 
plenty  of  gumption  for  the  thing,  and  quite 
enough  constitutional  laziness.  But  they  were 
sure  I  should  never  make  anything  of  a  fisher¬ 
man.  I  had  not  got  sufficient  imagination. 

They  said  that  as  a  poet,  or  a  shilling  shocker, 
or  a  reporter,  or  anything  of  that  kind,  I  might 
be  satisfactory,  but  that,  to  gain  any  position  as 
a  Thames  angler,  would  require  more  play  of 
fancy,  more  power  of  invention  than  I  appeared 
to  possess. 

Some  people  are  under  the  impression  that  all 
that  is  required  to  make  a  good  fisherman  is  the 
ability  to  tell  lies  easily  and  without  blushing; 
but  this  is  a  mistake.  Mere  bald  fabrication  is 
useless;  the  veriest  tyro  can  manage  that.  It 
is  in  the  circumstantial  detail,  the  embellishing 
touches  of  probability,  the  general  air  of  scrupu¬ 
lous — almost  of  pedantic — veracity,  that  the  ex¬ 
perienced  angler  is  seen. 


ghxzz  ptm  itx  a  gxrat. 


261 


Anybody  can  come  in  and  say,  “Oh,  I  caught, 
fifteen  dozen  perch  yesterday  evening;”  or  “Last 
Monday  I  landed  a  gudgeon,  weighing  eighteen 
pounds,  and  measuring  three  feet  from  the  tip 
to  the  tail.” 

There  is  no  art,  no  skill,  required  for  that  sort 
of  thing.  It  shows  pluck,  but  that  is  all. 

No;  your  accomplished  angler  would  scorn  to 
tell  a  lie,  that  way.  His  method  is  a  study  in 
itself. 

He  comes  in  quietly,  with  his  hat  on,  appro¬ 
priates  the  most  comfortable  chair,  lights  his 
pipe,  and  commences  to  puff  in  silence.  He  lets 
the  youngsters  brag  away  for  a  while,  and  then 
during  a  momentary  lull,  he  removes  the  pipe 
from  his  mouth,  and  remarks,  as  he  knocks  the 
ashes  out  against  the  bars: 

“Well,  I  had  a  haul  on  Tuesday  evening  that 
it’s  not  much  good  my  telling*  anybody  about.” 

“Oh!  why’s  that?”  they  ask. 

“Because  I  don’t  expect  anybody  would  be¬ 
lieve  me  if  I  did,”  replies  the  old  fellow  calmly, 
and  without  even  a  tinge  of  bitterness  in  his  tone, 
as  here  he  fills  his  pipe,  and  requests  the  landlord 
to  bring  him  three  of  Scotch,  cold. 

There  is  a  pause  after  this,  nobody  feeling  suf¬ 
ficiently  sure  of  himself  to  contradict  the  old 


262 


glxrcc  gtXctx  xn  a  |T.oat. 


gentleman.  So  he  has  to  go  on  by  himself  with¬ 
out  any  encouragement. 

“No,”  he  continues  thoughtfully;  “I  shouldn’t 
believe  it  myself  if  anybody  told  it  to  me,  but 
it’s  a  fact,  for  all  that.  I  had  been  sitting  there 
all  the  afternoon  and  had  caught  literally  nothing 
— except  a  few  dozen  dace  and  a  score  of  jack; 
and  I  was  just  about  giving  it  up  as  a  bad  job 
when  I  suddenly  felt  a  rather  smart  pull  at  the 
line.  I  thought  it  was  another  little  one,  and  I 
went  to  jerk  it  up.  Hang  me,  if  I  could  move 
the  rod !  It  took  me  half  an  hour — half  an  hour, 
sir !  to  land  that  fish ;  and  every  moment  I  thought 
the  line  was  going  to  snap!  I  reached  him  at 
last,  and  what  do  you  think  it  was?  A  sturgeon! 
A  forty  pound  sturgeon!  Taken  on  a  line,  sir! 
Yes,  you  may  well  look  surprised — I’ll  have  an¬ 
other  three  of  Scotch,  landlord,  please.” 

And  then  he  goes  on  to  tell  of  the  astonish¬ 
ment  of  everybody  who  saw  it;  and  what  his  wife 
said,  when  he  got  home,  and  of  what  Joe  Buggies 
thought  of  it. 

I  asked  the  landlord  of  an  inn  up  the  river 
once,  if  it  did  not  injure  him,  sometimes,  listen¬ 
ing  to  the  tales  that  the  fishermen  about  there 
told  him,  and  he  said: 

“Oh,  no;  not  now,  sir!  It  did  used  to  knock 
me  over  a  bit  at  first,  but,  lor’  love  you !  me  and 


ghvcz  gXcn  in  a  |6cat. 


263 


the  missus  we  listens  to  ’em  all  day  now.  It’s 
what  you’re  used  to*  you  know.  It’s  what  you're 
used  to.” 

I  knew  a  young  man  once,  he  was  a  most  con¬ 
scientious  fellow,  and,  when  he  took  to  fly-fish¬ 
ing,  he  determined  never  to  exaggerate  his  hauls 
by  more  than  twenty-five  per  cent. 

“When  I  have  caught  forty  fish,”  said  he,  “then 
I  will  tell  people  that  I  have  caught  fifty,  and  so 
on.  But  I  will  not  lie  any  more  than  that,  be¬ 
cause  it  is  sinful  to  lie.” 

But  the  twenty-five  per  cent  plan  did  not  work 
well  at  all.  He  never  was  able  to  use  it.  The 
greatest  number  of  fish  he  ever  caught  in  one 
day  was  three,  and  you  can't  add  twenty-five  per 
cent  to  three — at  least,  not  in  fish. 

So  he  increased  his  percentage  to  thirty-three- 
and-a-third;  but  that  again,  was  awkward,  when 
he  had  only  caught  one  or  two;  so,  to  simplify 
matters,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  just  double  the 
quantity. 

He  stuck  to  this  arrangement  for  a  couple  of 
months,  and  then  he  grew  dissatisfied  with  it. 
Nobody  believed  him  when  he  told  them  that 
he  only  doubled,  and  he,  therefore,  gained  no 
credit  that  way  whatever,  while  his  moderation 
put  him  at  a  disadvantage  among  the  other 
anglers.  When  he  had  really  caught  three  small 


264 


$Ixx*cjc  flm  xtx  a  gx rat. 


fish,  and  said  he  had  caught  six,  it  used  to  make 
him  quite  jealous  to  hear  a  man,  whom  he  knew 
for  a  fact  had  only  caught  one,  going  about  tell¬ 
ing  people  he  had  landed  two  dozen. 

So,  eventually,  he  made  one  final  arrangement 
with  himself,  which  he  has  religiously  held  to 
ever  since,  and  that  was  to  count  each  fish  that 
he  caught  as  ten,  and  to  assume  ten  to  begin 
with.  For  example,  if  he  did  not  catch  any  fish 
at  all,  then  he  said  he  had  caught  ten  fish — you 
could  never  catch  less  than  ten  fish  by  his  sys¬ 
tem;  that  was  the  foundation  of  it.  Then,  if  by 
any  chance  he  really  did  catch  one  fish,  he  called 
it  twenty,  while  two  fish  would  count  thirty,  three 
forty,  and  so  on. 

It  is  a  simple  and  easily  worked  plan,  and 
there  has  been  some  talk  lately  of  its  being  made 
use  of  by  the  angling  fraternity  in  general.  In¬ 
deed,  the  Committee  of  the  Thames  Anglers’  As¬ 
sociation  did  recommend  its  adoption  about  two 
years  ago,  but  some  of  the  older  members  op¬ 
posed  it.  They  said  they  would  consider  the 
idea  if  the  number  were  doubled,  and  each  fish 
counted  as  twenty. 

If  ever  you  have  an  evening  to  spare,  up  the 
river,  I  should  advise  you  to  drop  into  one  of  the 
little  village  inns,  and  take  a  seat  in  the  tap-room. 
You  will  be  nearly  sure  to  meet  one  or  two  old 


Q\xxzz  in  a  |?oat. 


265 


rodmen,  sipping  their  toddy  there,  and  they  will 
tell  you  enough  fishy  stories,  in  half  an  hour,  to 
give  you  indigestion  for  a  month. 

George  and  I — I  don’t  know  what  had  become 
of  Harris ;  he  had  gone  out  and  had  a  shave,  early 
in  the  afternoon,  and  had  then  come  back  and 
spent  full  forty  minutes  in  pipeclaying  his  shoes, 
we  had  not  seen  him  since — George  and  I,  there¬ 
fore,  and  the  dog,  left  to  ourselves,  went  for  a 
walk  to  Wallingford  on  the  second  evening,  and, 
coming  home,  we  called  in  at  a  little  river-side  inn, 
for  a  rest,  and  other  things. 

We  went  into  the  parlor  and  sat  down.  There 
was  an  old  fellow  there,  smoking  a  long  clay  pipe, 
and  we  naturally  began  chatting. 

He  told  us  that  it  had  been  a  fine  day  to-day, 
and  we  told  him  that  it  had  been  a  fine  day  yes¬ 
terday,  and  then  we  all  told  each  other  that  we 
thought  it  would  be  a  fine  day  to-morrow;  and 
George  said  the  crops  'seemed  to  be  coming  up 
nicely. 

After  that  it  came  out,  somehow  or  other,  that 
we  were  strangers  in  the  neighborhood,  and  that 
we  were  going  away  .the  next  morning. 

Then  a  pause  ensued  in  the  conversation,  dur¬ 
ing  which  our  eyes  wandered  round  the  room. 
They  finally  rested  upon  a  dusty  old  glass  case, 
fixed  very  high  up  above  the  chimney-piece,  and 


266 


glW&e  fpt. m  in  n  gmtt. 


.  containing  a  trout.  It  rather  fascinated  me,  tha} 
trout;  it  was  such  a  monstrous  fish.  In  fact,  at 
first  glance,  I  thought  it  was  a  cod. 

“Ah!”  said  the  old  gentleman,  following  the 
direction  of  my  gaze,  “fine  fellow  that,  ain’t  he?” 

“Quite  uncommon,”  I  murmured;  and  George 
asked  the  old  man  how  much  he  thought  it 
weighed.  “Eighteen  pounds  six  ounces,”  said  our 
friend,  rising  and  taking  down  his  coat.  “Yes,” 
he  continued,  “it  wur  sixteen  year  ago,  come  the 
third  o’  next  month,  that  I  landed  him.  I  caught 
him  just  below  the  bridge  with  a  minnow.  They 
told  me  he  wur  in  the  river,  and  I  said  I’d  have 
him,  and  so  I  did.  You  don’t  see  many  fish  that 
size  about  here  now,  I’m  thinking.  Good-night, 
gentlemen,  good-night.” 

And  out  he  went,  and  left  us  alone. 

We  could  not  take  our  eyes  off  the  fish  after 
that.  It  really  was  a  remarkably  fine  fish.  We 
were  still  looking  at  it,  Mien  the  local  carrier, 
who  had  just  stopped  at  the  inn,  came  to  the  door 
of  the  room  with  a  pot  of  beer  in  his  hand,  and 
lie  also  looked  at  the  fish. 

“Good-sized  trout,  that,”  said  George,  turning 
round  to  him. 

“Ah!  you  may  well  say  that,  sir,”  replied  the 
man;  and  then,  after  a  pull  at  his  beer,  he  added: 


|Wctx  in  a  gjcrat,  267 

m 

‘‘Maybe  you  wasn’t  here,  sir,  when  that  fish  was 
caught?” 

‘‘No,”  we  told  him.  We  were  strangers  in  the 
neighborhood. 

“Ah!”  said  the  carrier,  “then,  of  course,  how 
should  you?  It  was  nearly  five  years  ago  that  I 
caught  that  trout.” 

“Oh!  was  it  you  who  caught  it,  then?”  said  L 

“Yes,  sir,”  replied  the  genial  old  fellow.  “I 
caught  him  just  below  the  lock — leastways,  what 
was  the  lock  then — one  Friday  afternoon;  and 
the  remarkable  thing  about  it  is  that  I  caught  him 
with  a  fly.  I’d  gone  out  pike-fishing,  bless  you, 
never  thinking  of  a  trout,  and  when  I  saw  that 
whopper  on  the  end  of  my  line,  blest  if  it  didn’t 
quite  take  me  aback.  Well,  you  see,  he  weighed 
twenty-six  pound.  Good-night,  gentlemen,  good¬ 
night.” 

Five  minutes  afterward,  a  third  man  came  in, 
and  described  how  he  had  caught  it  early  one 
morning,  with  bleak;  and  then  he  left,  and  a 
stolid,  solemn-looking  middle-aged  individual 
came  in,  and  sat  down  over  by  the  window. 

None  of  us  spoke  for  a  while;  but,  at  length, 
George  turned  to  the  new-comer,  and  said: 

“I  beg  your  pardon,  I  hope  you  will  forgive 
the  liberty  that  we — perfect  strangers  in  the 
neighborhood — are  taking,  but  my  friend  and 


268 


Qhxzz  |>%m  xw  a  gxrai. 


myself  would  be  so  much  obliged  if  you  would 
tell  us  how  you  caught  that  trout  up  there.” 

“Why,  who  told  you  I  caught  that  trout!”  was 
the  surprised  query. 

We  said  nobody  had  told  us  so,  but  somehow 
or  other  we  felt  instinctively  that  it  was  he  who 
had  done  it. 

“Well,  it’s  a  most  remarkable  thing— most  re¬ 
markable, ’’answered  the  stolid  stranger,  laughing; 
“because,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  you  are  quite  right. 
I  did  catch  it.  But  fancy  your  guessing  it  like 
that.  Dear  me,  it’s  really  a  most  remarkable 
thing.” 

And  then  he  went  on  and  tcM  us  how  it  had 
taken  him  half  an  hour  to  land  it  and  how  it  had 
broken  his  rod.  He  said  he  had  weighed  it  care¬ 
fully  when  he  reached  home,  and  it  had  turned 
die  scale  at  thirty-four  pounds. 

Pie  went  in  his  turn,  and  when  he  was  gone, 
the  landlord  came  in  to  us.  We  told  him  the 
various  histories  we  had  heard  about  his  trout, 
and  he  was  immensely  amused,  and  we  all  laugli- 
ed  very  heartily. 

“Fancy  Jim  Bates  and  Joe  Muggles  and  Mr. 
Jones  and  old  Billy  Maunders  all  telling  you 
that  they  had  caught  it.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Well,  that 
is  good,”  said  the  honest  old  fellow,  laughing 
heartily.  “Yes,  they  are  the  sort  to  give  it  me, 


glxvejc  fH&jetx  in  a  goat* 


269 


to  put  up  in  my  parlor,  if  they  had  caught  it,  they 
are!  Ha!  ha!  ha!” 

And  then  he  told  us  the  real  history  of  the  fish. 
It  seemed  that  he  had  caught  it  himself,  years  ago, 
when  he  was  quite  a  lad ;  not  by  any  art  or  skill, 
but  by  that  unaccountable  luck  that  appears  to 
always  wait  upon  a  boy:  when  he  plays  the  wag 
from  school,  and  goes  out  fishing  on  a  sunny 
afternoon,  with  a  bit  of  string  tied  on  the  end 
of  a  tree. 

He  said  that  bringing  heme  that  trout  had 
saved  him  from  a  whacking,  and  that  even  his 
schoolmaster  had  said  it  was  worth  the  rule  of 
three  and  practice  put  together. 

He  was  called  out  of  the  room  at  this  point, 
and  George  and  I  again  turned  our  gaze  upon 
the  fish. 

It  really  was  a  most  astonishing  trout.  The 
more  we  looked  at  it,  the  more  we  marveled  at 
it.  It  excited  Georgv  so  much  that  he  climbed 
up  on  the  back  of  a  chair  to  get  a  better  view 
of  it. 

And  then  the  chair  slipped,  and  George  clutch¬ 
ed  wildly  at  the  trout-case  to  save  himself,  and 
down  it  came  with  a  crash,  George  and  the  chair 
on  top  of  it. 

“You  haven’t  injured  the  fish,  have  you?”  I 
cried  in  alarm,  rushing  up. 


270 


$IXVJCC  fjfcjetx  in  a  gloat. 


“I  hope  not,”  said  George,  rising  cautiously 
and  looking  about. 

But  he  had.  That  trout  lay  shattered  into  a 
thousand  fragments — I  say  a  thousand,  but  they 
may  have  only  been  nine  hundred.  I  did  not 
count  them. 

We  thought  it  strange  and  unaccountable  that 
a  stuffed  trout  should  break  up  into  little  pieces 
like  that. 

And  so  it  would  have  been  strange  and  unac¬ 
countable,  if  it  had  been  a  stuffed  trout,  but  it 
was  not. 

That  trout  was  plaster  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

We  left  Streatley  early  the  next  morning,  and 
pulled  up  to  Culham,  and  slept  under  the  canvas, 
in  the  backwater  there. 

The  river  is  not  extraordinarily  interesting  be¬ 
tween  Streatley  and  Wallingford.  From  Cleve 
you  get  a  stretch  of  six  and  a  half  miles  without 
lock.  I  believe  this  is  the  longest  uninterrupted 
stretch  anywhere  above  Teddington,  and  the  Ox¬ 
ford  Club  make  use  of  it  for  their  trial  eights. 

But  however  satisfactory  this  absence  of  locks 


f$tj etx  itx  a  gxrut. 


271 


may  be  to  rowing-men,  it  is  to  be  regretted  by 
the  mere  pleasure-seeker. 

For  myself,  I  am  fond  of  locks.  They  pleas¬ 
antly  break  the  monotony  of  the  pull.  I  like  sit¬ 
ting  in  the  boat  and  slowly  rising  out  of  the  cool 
depths  up  into  new  reaches  and  fresh  views;  or 
sinking  down,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  world,  and 
then  waiting,  while  the  gloomy  gates  creak,  and 
the  narrow  strip  of  daylight  between  them  widens 
tilL  the  fair  smiling  river  lies  full  before  you,  and 
you  push  your  little  boat  out  of  its  brief  prison  on 
to  the  welcoming  waters  once  again. 

They  are  picturesque  little  spots,  these  locks. 
The  stout  old  lock-keeper,  or  his  cheerful-looking 
wife,  or  bright-eyed  daughter,  are  pleasant  folk 
to  have  a  passing  chat  with.*  You  meet  other 
boats  there,  and  river  gossip  is  exchanged.  The 
Thames  would  not  be  the  fairyland  it  is  without 
its  flower-decked  locks. 

Talking  of  locks  reminds  me  of  an  accident 
George  and  I  very  nearly  had  one  summer’s 
morning  at  Hampton  Court. 

It  was  a  glorious  day,  and  the  lock  was  crowd- 

*Or  rather  were.  The  Conservancy  of  late  seems 
to  have  constituted  itself  into  a  society  for  the  em¬ 
ployment  of  idiots.  A  good  many  of  the  new  lock- 
keepers,  especially  in  the  more  crowded  portions  of 
the  river,  are  excitable,  nervous  old  men,  quite  unfitted 
for  their  post. 


272 


Qixxzz  ptm  in  a  gjcrat. 


ed;  and,  as  is  a  common  practice  up  the  river,  a 
speculative  photographer  was  taking  a  picture  of 
us  all  as  we  lay  upon  the  rising  waters. 

I  did  not  catch  what  was  going  on  at  first,  and 
was,  therefore,  extremely  surprised  at  noticing 
George  hurriedly  smooth  out  his  trousers,  ruffle 
up  his  hair,  and  stick  his  cap  on  in  a  rakish  man¬ 
ner  at  the  back  of  his  head,  and  then,  assuming 
an  expression  of  mingled  affability  and  sadness, 
sit  down  in  a  graceful  attitude,  and  try  to  hide  his 
feet. 

My  first  idea  was  that  he  had  suddenly  caught 
sight  of  some  girl  he  knew,  and  I  looked  about 
to  see  who  it  was.  Everybody  in  the  lock  seemed 
to  have  been  suddenly  struck  wooden.  They 
were  all  standing  or  sitting  about  in  the  most 
quaint  and  curious  attitudes  I  have  ever  seen  off 
a  Japanese  fan.  All  the  girls  were  smiling.  Oh, 
they  did  look  so  sweet!  And  all  the  fellows 
were  frowning,  and  looking  stern  and  noble. 

And  then,  at  last,  the  truth  flashed  across  me, 
and  I  wondered  if  I  should  be  in  time.  Oufs  was 
the  first  boat,  and  it  would  be  unkind  of  me  to 
spoil  the  man’s  picture,  I  thought. 

So  I  faced  round  quickly,  and  took  up  a  posi¬ 
tion  in  the  prow,  where  I  leant  with  careless  grace 
upon  the  hitcher,  in  an  attitude  suggestive  of 
agility  and  strength.  I  arranged  my  hair  with  a 


3JItvcc  gXcu  in  a  goat. 


273 


curl  over  the  forehead,  and  threw  an  air  of  tender 
wistfulness  into  my  expression,  mingled  with  a 
touch  of  cynicism,  which  I  am  told  suits  me. 

As  we  stood  waiting  for  the  eventful  moment, 
I  heard  some  one  behind  call  out: 

“Hi!  look  at  your  nose.” 

I  could  not  turn  round  to  see  what  was  the 
matter,  and  whose  nose  it  was  that  was  to  be 
looked  at.  I  stole  a  side  glance  at  George’s  nose! 
It  was  all  right — at  all  events,  there  was  nothing 
wrong  with  it  that  could  be  altered.  I  squinted 
down  at  my  own,  and  that  seemed  all  that  could 
be  expected  also. 

“Look  at  your  nose,  you  stupid  ass!”  came  the 
same  voice  again,  louder. 

And  then  another  voice  cried: 

“Push  your  nose  out,  can’t  you,  you — you  two 
with  the  dog!” 

Neither  George  nor  I  dared  to  turn  round. 
The  man’s  hand  was  on  the  cap,  and  the  picture 
might  be  taken  any  moment.  Was  it  us  they 
were  calling  to?  What  was  the  matter  with  our 
noses?  Why  were  they  to  be  pushed  out! 

But  now  the  whole  lock  started  yelling,  and  a 
stentorian  voice  from  the  back  shouted: 

“Look  at  your  boat,  sir:  you  in  the  red  and 
black  caps.  It’s  your  two  corpses  that  will  get 
taken  in  that  photo,  if  you  ain't  quick.” 


274 


ghvcc  fputx  in  a  goat. 


We  looked  then,  and  saw  that  the  nose  of  our 
boat  had  got  fixed  under  the  woodwork  of  the  lock 
while  the  incoming  water  was  rising  all  round  it, 
and  tilting  it  up.  In  another  moment  we  should 
be  over.  Quick  as  thought,  we  each  seized  an 
oar,  and  a  vigorous  blow  against  the  side  of  the 
lock  with  the  butt-ends  released  the  boat,  and 
sent  us  sprawling  on  our  backs. 

We  did  not  come  out  well  in  that  photograph, 
George  and  I.  Of  course,  as  was  to  be  expected, 
our  luck  ordained  it  that  the  man  should  set  his 
wretched  machine  in  motion  at  the  precise  mo¬ 
ment  that  we  were  both  lying  on  our  backs  with 
a  wild  expression  of  “Where  am  I?  and  what  is 
it?”  on  our  faces,  and  our  four  feet  waving  madly 
in  the  air. 

Our  feet  were  undoubtedly  the  leading  article 
in  that  photograph.  Indeed,  very  little  else  was 
to  be  seen.  They  filled  up  the  foreground  en¬ 
tirely.  Behind  them,  you  caught  glimpses  of  the 
other  boats,  and  bits  of  the  surrounding  scenery ; 
but  everything  and  everybody  else  in  the  lock 
looked  so  utterly  insignificant  and  paltry  com¬ 
pared  with  our  feet,  that  all  the  other  people  felt 
quite  ashamed  of  themselves,  and  refused  to  sub¬ 
scribe  to  the  picture. 

The  owner  of  one  steam  launch,  who  had  be¬ 
spoke  six  copies,  rescinded  the  order  on  seeing 


JlTtvec  fJXjeix  in  a  goat,  ,„.d 

the  negative.  He  said  he  would  take  them  if 
anybody  could  show  him  his  launch,  but  nobody 
could.  It  was  somewhere  behind  George’s  right 
foot 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  unpleasantness  over 
the  business.  The  photographer  thought  we 
ought  to  take  a  dozen  copies  each,  seeing  that 
the  photo  was  about  nine-tenths  us,  but  we  de¬ 
clined.  We  said  we  had  no  objection  to  being 
photo’d  full  length,  but  we  preferred  being  taken 
the  right  way  up. 

Wallingford,  six  miles  above  Streatley,  is  a  very 
ancient  town,  and  has  been  an  active  center  for 
the  making  of  English  history.  It  was  a  rude, 
mud-built  town  in  the  time  of  the  Britons,  who 
squatted  there,  until  the  Roman  legions  evicted 
them,  and  replaced  their  clay-baked  walls  by 
mighty  fortifications,  the  trace  of  which  Time  has 
not  yet  succeeded  in  sweeping  away,  so  well  those 
old-world  masons  knew  how  .to  build. 

But  Time,  though  he  halted  at  Roman  walls, 
soon  crumbled  Romans  to  dust;  and  on  the 
ground,  in  later  years,  fought  savage  Saxons  and 
huge  Danes,  until  the  Normans  came. 

It  was  a  walled  and  fortified  town  up  to  the 
time  of  the  Parliamentary  War,  when  it  suffered  a 
long  and  bitter  siege  from  Fairfax.  It  fell  at  last, 
and  then  the  walls  were  razed. 


276 


ghvcc  2*%eu  in  a  goat. 


From  Wallingford  up  to  Dorchester  the  neigh¬ 
borhood  of  the  river  grows  more  hilly,  varied,  and 
picturesque.  Dorchester  stands  half  a  mile  from 
the  river.  It  can  be  reached  by  paddling  up  the 
Thames,  if  you  have  a  small  boat;  but  the  best 
way  is  to  leave  the  river  at  Day’s  Lock,  and  take 
a  walk  across  the  fields.  Dorchester  is  a  delight¬ 
fully  peaceful  old  place,  nestling  in  stillness  and 
silence  and  drowsiness. 

Dorchester,  like  Wallingford,  was  a  city  in  an¬ 
cient  British  times;  it  was  then  called  Caer 
Doren,  “the  city  on  the  water.”  In  more  recent 
times  the  Romans  formed  a  great  camp  here, 
the  fortifications  surrounding  which  now  seem 
like  low,  even  hills.  In  Saxon  days  it  was  the 
capital  of  Wessex.  It  is  very  old,  and  it  was 
very  strong  and  great  once.  Now  it  sits  aside 
from  the  stirring  world,  and  nods  and  dreams. 

Round  Clifton  Hampden,  itself  a  wonderfully 
pretty  village,  old-fashioned,  peaceful,  and  dainty 
with  flowers,  the  river  scenery  is  rich  and  beauti¬ 
ful.  If  you  stay  the  night  on  land  at  Clifton,  you 
cannot  do  better  than  put  up  at  the  “Barley  Alow.” 
It  is,  without  exception,  I  should  say,  the  quaint¬ 
est,  most  old-world  inn  up  the  river.  It  stands 
on  the  right  of  the  bridge,  quite  away  from  the 
village.  Its  low-pitched  gables  and  thatched  roof 
and  latticed  windows  give  it  quite  a  story-book 


glxtteje  fpbetx  in  a  gjcrat 


277 


appearance,  while  inside  it  is  even  still  more 
onee-upon-a-timeyfied. 

It  would  not  be  a  good  place  for  the  heroine 
of  a  modern  novel  to  stay  at.  The  heroine  of  a 
modern  novel  is  always  “divinely  tall/’  and  she  is 
ever  “drawing  herself  up  to  her  full  height.”  At 
the  “Barley  Mow”  she  would  bump  her  head 
against  the  ceiling  each  time  she  did  this 

It  would  also  be  a  bad  house  for  a  drunken  man 
to  put  up  at.  There  are  too  many  surprises  in 
the  wray  of  unexpected  steps  down  into  this  room 
and  up  into  that:  and  as  for  getting  upstairs  to 
his  bedroom,  or  ever  finding  his  bed  when  he 
got  up,  either  operation  would  be  an  utter  impos- 
sibilitv  to  him. 

V  V 

We  were  up  early  the  next  morning,  as  we 
wanted  to  be  in  Oxford  by  the  afternoon.  It  is 
surprising  how  early  one  can  get  up,  when  camp¬ 
ing  out.  One  does  not  yearn  for  “just  another 
five  minutes”  nearly  so  much,  lying  wrapped  up 
in  a  rug  on  the  boards  of  a  boat,  with  a  Gladstone 
bag  for  a  pillow,  as  one  does  in  a  feather  bed. 
We  had  finished  breakfast,  and  were  through 
Clifton  Lock  by  half-past  eight. 

From  Clifton  to  Culham  the  river  banks  are 
flat,  monotonous,  and  uninteresting,  but,  after 
you  get  through  Culham  Lock — the  coldest  and 


278  glmjc  fptjetx  xtx  a  guat* 

deepest  lock  on  the  river — the  landscape  im¬ 
proves. 

At  Abingdon,  the  river  passes  by  the  streets. 
Abingdon  is  a  typical  country  town  of  the  smaller 
order — quiet,  eminently  respectable,  clean,  and 
desperately  dull.  It  prides  itself  on  being  old, 
but  whether  it  can  compare  in  this  respect  with 
Wallingford  and  Dorchester  seems  doubtful.  A 
famous  abbey  stood  here  once,  and  within  what 
is  left  of  its  sanctified  walls  they  brew  bitter  ale 
nowadays. 

In  St.  Nicholas  Church,  at  Abingdon,  there  is 
a  monument  to  Jack  Blackwall  and  his  wife  Jane, 
who  both,  after  leading  a  happy  married  life,  died 
on  the  very  same  day,  August  21,  1625;  and  in 
St.  Heleifis  Church,  it  is  recorded  that  W.  Lee, 
who  died  in  1637,  “had  in  his  lifetime  issue  from 
his  loins  two  hundred  lacking  but  three.”  If  you 
work  this  out  you  will  find  that  Mr.  W.  Lee’s 
family  numbered  one  hundred  and  ninety-seven. 
Mr.  W.  Lee — five  times  Mayor  of  Abingdon — 
was,  no  doubt,  a  benefactor  to  his  generation, 
but  I  hope  there  are  not  many  of  his  kind  about 
in  this  overcrowded  Nineteenth  Century. 

From  Abingdon  to  Nuneham  Courteney  is  a 
lovely  stretch.  Nuneham  Park  is  well  worth  a 
visit.  It  can  be  viewed'  on  Tuesdays  and  Thurs¬ 
days.  Th«.  house  contains  a  fine  collection  of  pic- 


g  force  gXrrt  in  a  geaL  279 

tures  and  curiosities,  and  the  grounds  are  very 
beautiful. 

The  pool  under  Sandford  lasher,  just  behind 
the  lock,  is  a  very  good  place  to  drown  yourself 
in.  The  undercurrent  is  terribly  strong,  and  if 
you  once  get  down  into  it  you  are  all  right.  An 
obelisk  marks  the  spot  where  two  men  have 
already  been  drowned  while  bathing  there;  and 
the  steps  of  the  obelisk  are  generally  used  as  a 
diving-board  by  young  men  now  who  wish  to 
see  if  the  place  really  is  dangerous. 

Iffley  Lock  and  mill,  a  mile  before  you  reach 
Oxford,  is  a  favorite  subject  with  the  river-loving 
brethren  of  the  brush.  The  real  article,  however, 
is  rather  disappointing,  after  the  pictures.  Few 
things,  I  have  noticed,  come  quite  up  to  the  pic¬ 
tures  of  them,  in  this  world.  We  passed  through 
Iffley  Lock  at  about  half-past  twelve,  and  then, 
having  tidied  up  the  boat  and  made  all  ready  for 
landing,  we  set  to  work  on  our  last  mile. 

Between  Iffley  and  Oxford  is  the  most  difficult 
bit  of  the  river  I  know.  You  want  to  be  born  on 
that  bit  of  water,  to  understand  it.  I  have  been 
over  it  a  fairish  number  of  times,  but  I  have  never 
been  able  to  get  the  hang  of  it.  The  man  who 
could  row  a  straight  course  from  Oxford  to  Iffley 
ought  to  be  able  to  live  comfortably,  under  one 
roof,  with  his  wife,  his  mother-in-law,  his  elder 


280 


gfaw  fptjetx  in  a  gxrat. 

sister,  and  the  old  servant  who  was  in  the  family 
when  he  was  a  baby. 

First  the  current  drives*  you  on  to  the  right 
bank,  then  on  to  the  left,  then  it  takes  you  into  the 
middle,  turns  you  around  three  times,  and  car¬ 
ries  you  up  stream  again,  and  always  ends  by 
trying  to  smash  you  up  against  a  college  barge. 

Of  course,  as  a  consequence  of  this,  we  got  in 
the  way  of  a  good  many  other  boats  during  the 
mile,  and  they  in  ours,  and,  of  course,  as  a  con¬ 
sequence  of  that,  a  good  deal  of  bad  language 
occurred. 

I  don’t  know  why  it  should  be,  but  everybody 
is  always  so  exceptionally  irritable  on  the  river. 
Little  mishaps,  that  you  would  hardly  notice  on 
dry  land,  drive  you  nearly  frantic  with  rage  when 
they  occur  on  the  water.  When  Harris  or  George 
makes  an  ass  of  himself  on  dry  land  I  smile  in¬ 
dulgently;  when  they  behave  in  a  chucklehead 
way  on  the  river,  I  use  most  bloodcurdling  lan¬ 
guage  to  them.  When  another  boat  gets  in  my 
way,  I  feel  I  want  to  take  an  oar  and  kill  all  the 
people  in  it. 

The  mildest-tempered  people,  when  on  land, 
become  violent  and  bloodthirsty  when  in  a  boat. 
I  did  a  little  boating  once  with  a  young  lady. 
She  was  naturally  of  the  sweetest  and  gentlest 


gtaixc  fjftjeix  in  a  goat. 


281 


disposition  imaginable,  but  on  the  river  it  was 
quite  awful  to  hear  hen 

“Oh,  drat  the  man!”  she  would  exclaim,  when 
some  unfortunate  sculler  would  get  in  her  way; 
‘'why  don’t  he  look  where  he’s  going?” 

And,  “Oh,  bother  the  silly  old  thing!”  she 
would  say  indignantly,  when  the  sail  would  not 
go  up  properly.  And  she  would  catch  hold  of  it, 
and  shake  it  quite  brutally. 

Yet,  as  I  have  said,  when  on  shore  she  was 
kind-hearted  and  amiable  enough. 

The  air  of  the  river  has  a  demoralizing  effect 
upon  one’s  temper,  and  this  it  is,  I  suppose,  which 
causes  even  bargemen  to  be  sometimes  rude  to 
one  another,  and  to  use  language  which,  no 
doubt,  in  their  calmer  moments  they  regret. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

We  spent  two  very  pleasant  days  at  Oxford. 
There  are  plenty  of  dogs  in  the  town  of  Oxford. 
Montmorency  had  eleven  fights  on  the  first  day, 
and  fourteen  on  the  second,  and  evidently  thought 
he  had  got  to  heaven. 

Among  folk  too  constitutionally  weak,  or  too 
constitutionally  lazy,  whichever  it  may  be,  to  rel- 


282 


gfttcjc  | %im  in  a  goat. 


ish  np-stream  work,  it  is  a  common  practice  to  get 
a  boat  at  Oxford  and  row  down.  For  the  ener¬ 
getic,  however,  the  up-stream  journey  is  certainly 
to  be  preferred.  It  does  not  seem  good  to  be 
always  going  with  the  current.  There  is  more 
satisfaction  in  squaring  one’s  back,  and  fighting 
against  it,  and  winning  one’s  way  forward  in  spite 
of  it — at  least,  so  I  feel  when  Harris  and  George 
are  sculling  and  I  am  steering. 

To  those  who  do  contemplate  making  Oxford 
their  starting-place,  I  would  say,  take  your  own 
boat — unless,  of  course,  you  can  take  some  one 
else’s  without  any  possible  danger  of  being 
found  out.  The  boats  that,  as  a  rule,  are  let  for 
hire  on  the  Thames  above  Marlow,  are  very  good 
boats.  They  are  fairly  water-tight;  and  so  long 
as  they  are  handled  with  care,  they  rarely  come  to 
pieces,  or  sink.  There  are  places  in  them  to  sit 
down  on,  and  they  are  complete  with  all  the  nec¬ 
essary  arrangements — or  nearly  all — to  enable 
you  to  row  them  and  steer  them. 

But  they  are  not  ornamental.  The  boat  you 
hire  up  the  river  above  Marlow  is  not  the  sort 
of  boat  in  which  you  can  flash  about  and  give 
yourself  airs.  The  hired  up-river  boat  very  soon 
puts  a  stop  to  any  nonsense  of  that  sort  on  the 
part  of  its  occupants.  That  is  its  chief — one  may 
say,  its  only  recommendation. 


gTxiejcc  f&jctt  in  a  goat. 


283 


The  man  in  the  hired  up-river  boat  is  modest 
and  retiring.  He  likes  to  keep  on  the  shady 
side,  underneath  the  trees,  and  to  do  most  of  his 
traveling  early  in  the  morning  or  late  at  night, 
when  there  are  not  many  people  about  on  the 
river  to  look  at  him. 

When  the  man  in  the  hired  up-river  boat  sees 
any  one  he  knows,  he  gets  out  on  to  the  bank, 
and  hides  behind  a  tree. 

I  was  one  of  a  party  who  hired  an  up-river 
boat  one  summer,  for  a  few  days’  trip.  We  had 
none  of  us  ever  seen  the  hired  up-river  boat  be¬ 
fore  ;  and  we  did  not  know  what  it  was  when  we 
did  see  it. 

We  had  written  for  a  boat — a  double-sculling 
skiff;  and  when  we  went  down  with  our  bags  to 
the  yard,  and  gave  names,  the  man  said: 

“Oh,  yes;  you’re  the  party  that  wrote  for  a 
double-sculling  skiff.  It’s  all  right.  Jim,  fetch 
round  The  Pride  of  the  Thames.” 

The  boy  went,  and  reappeared  five  minutes 
afterward,  struggling  with  an  antediluvian  chunk 
of  wood,  that  looked  as  though  it  had  been  re¬ 
cently  dug  out  of  somewhere,  and  dug  out  care¬ 
lessly,  so  as  to  have  been  unnecessarily  damaged 
in  the  process. 

My  own  idea,  on  first  catching  sight  of  the 
object,  was  that  it  was  a  Roman  relic  of  some 


284  QIxxjm  |*%m  xix  a  gxsat. 

sort, — relic  of  what  I  do  not  know,  possibly  of  a 
coffin. 

The  neighborhood  of  the  upper  Thames  is  rich 
in  Roman  relics,  and  my  surmise  seemed  to  me 
a  very  probable  one ;  but  our  serious  young  man, 
who  is  a  bit  of  a  geologist,  pooh-poohed  my  Ro¬ 
man  relic  theory,  and  said  it  was  clear  to  the 
meanest  intellect  (in  which  category  he  seemed 
to  be  grieved  that  he  could  not  conscientiously 
include  mine)  that  the  thing  the  boy  had  found 
was  the  fossil  of  a  whale;  and  he  pointed  out  to 
us  various  evidences  proving  that  it  must 
have  belonged  to  the  pre-glacial  period. 

To  settle  the  dispute,  we  appealed  to  the  boy. 
We  told  him  not  to  be  afraid,  but  to  speak  the 
plain  truth.  Was  it  the  fossil  of  a  pre-Adamite 
whale,  or  was  it  an  early  Roman  coffin? 

The  boy  said  it  was  The  Pride  of  the  Thames. 

We  thought  this  a  very  humorous  answer  on 
the  part  of  the  boy  at  first,  and  somebody  gave 
him  twopence  as  a  reward  for  his  ready  wit;  but 
when  he  persisted  in  keeping  up  the  joke,  as  we 
thought,  too  long,  we  got  vexed  with  him. 

“Come,  come,  my  lad !”  said  our  captain  sharp¬ 
ly,  “don’t  let  us  have  any  nonsense.  You  take 
your  mother’s  washing-tub  home  again,  and  bring 
us  a  boat.” 

The  boat-builder  himself  came  up  then,  and 


gftccc  pc.cn  in  a  |3oat. 


285 


assured  us,  on  his  word,  as  a  practical  man,  that 
the  thing  really  was  a  boat — was,  in  fact,  the  boat, 
the  “double-sculling  skiff”  selected  to  take  us  on 
our  trip  down  the  river. 

We  grumbled  a  good  deal.  We  thought  he 
might,  at  least,  have  had  it  whitewashed  or  tarred 
■ — had  something  done  to  it  to  distinguish  it  from 
a  bit  of  a  wreck;  but  he  could  not  see  any  fault 
in  it. 

He  even  seemed  offended  at  our  remarks.  He 
said  he  had  picked  us  out  the  best  boat  in  all 
his  stock,  and  he  thought  we  might  have  been 
more  grateful. 

He  said  it,  The  Pride  of  the  Thames,  had  been 
in  use,  just  as  it  now  stood  (or  rather  as  it  now 
hung  together),  for  the  last  forty  years,  to  his 
knowledge,  and  nobody  had  complained  of  it  be¬ 
fore,  and  he  did  not  see  why  we  should  be  the 
first  to  begin. 

We  argued  no  more. 

We  fastened  the  so-called  boat  together  with 
some  pieces  of  string,  got  a  bit  of  wall-paper  and 
pasted  over  the  shabbier  places,  said  our  prayers, 
and  stepped  on  board. 

They  charged  us  thirty-five  shillings  for  the 
loan  of  the  remnant  for  six  days;  and  we  could 
have  bought  the  thing  out  and  out  for  four-and- 
sixpence  at  any  sale  of  driftwood  round  the  coast. 


286 


glxtjcjc  | aptjcw  in  a  goat. 


The  weather  changed  on  the  third  day, — oh!  I 
am  talking  about  our  present  trip  now, — and  we 
started  from  Oxford  upon  our  homeward  jour¬ 
ney  in  the  midst  of  a  steady  drizzle. 

The  river — with  the  sunlight  flashing  from  its 
dancing  wavelets,  gilding  gold  and  gray-green 
beech  trunks,  glinting  through  the  dark,  cool 
wood  paths,  chasing  shadows  o’er  the  shallows, 
dinging  diamonds  from  the  mill-wheels,  throwing 
kisses  to  the  lilies,  wantoning  with  the  weir’s 
white  waters,  silvering  moss-grown  walls  and 
bridges,  brightening  every  tiny  townlet,  making 
sweet  each  lane  and  meadow,  lying  tangled  in 
the  rushes,  peeping,  laughing,  from  each  inlet, 
gleaming  gay  on  many  a  far  sail,  making  soft 
the  air  with  glory — is  a  golden  fairy  stream. 

But  the  river — chill  and  weary,  with  the  cease¬ 
less  raindrops  falling  on  its  brown  and  sluggish 
waters,  with  a  sound  as  of  a  woman  weeping  low 
in  some  dark  chamber;  while  the  woods,  all  dark 
and  silent,  shrouded  in  their  mists  of  vapor,  stand 
like  ghosts  upon  the  margin;  silent  ghosts  with 
eyes  reproachful,  like  the  ghosts  of  evil  actions, 
like  the  ghosts  of  friends  neglected — is  a  spirit 
haunted  water  through  the  land  of  vain  regrets. 

Sunlight  is  the  life-blood  of  Nature.  Mother 
Earth  looks  at  us  with  such  dull,  soulless  eyes, 
when  the  sunlight  has  died  away  from  out  of  her. 


Jgtaeje  fjfcjea  in  a  gorai. 


287 


It  makes  us  sad  to  be  with  her  then ;  she  does  not 
seem  to  know  us  or  to  care  for  us.  She  is  as  a 
widow  who  has  lost  the  husband  she  loved,  and 
her  children  touch  her  hand,  and  look  up  into  her 
eyes,  but  gain  no  smile  from  her. 

We  rowed  on  all  that  day  through  the  rain, 
and  very  melancholy  work  it  was.  We  pretended, 
at  first,  that  we  enjoyed  it.  We  said  it  was  a 
change,  that  we  liked  to  see  the  river  under  all 
its  different  aspects.  We  said  we  could  not  ex¬ 
pect  to  have  it  all  sunshine,  nor  should  we  wish 
it.  We  told  each  other  that  Nature  was  beautiful, 
even  in  her  tears. 

Indeed,  Harris  and  I  were  quite  enthusiastic 
about  the  business,  for  the  first  few  hours.  And 
we  sang  a  song  about  a  gypsy’s  life,  and  how 
delightful  a  gypsy’s  existence  was ! — free  to  storm 
and  sunshine,  and  to  every  wind  that  blew! — ■ 
and  how  he  enjoyed  the  rain,  and  what  a  lot  of 
good  it  did  him;  and  how  he  laughed  at  people 
who  didn’t  like  it. 

George  took  the  fun  more  soberly,  and  stuck 
to  the  umbrella. 

We  hoisted  the  cover  before  we  had  lunch, 
and  kept  it  up  all  the  afternoon,  just  leaving  a 
little  space  in  the  bow,  from  which  one  of  us  could 
paddle  and  keep  a  lookout.  In  this  way  we  made 


288 


Jgte&e  pXew  in  a 


nine  miles,  and  pulled  up  for  the  night  a  little  be¬ 
low  Day’s  Lock. 

* 

I  cannot  honestly  say  that  we  had  a  merry 
evening.  The  rain  poured  down  with  quiet  per¬ 
sistency.  Everything  in  the  boat  was  damp  and 
clammy.  Supper  was  not  a  success.  Cold  veal 
pie,  when  you  don’t  feel  hungry,  is  apt  to  cloy. 
I  felt  I  wanted  white  bait  and  a  cutlet;  Harris 
babbled  of  soles  and  white-sauce,  and  passed  the 
remains  of  his  pie  to  Montmorency,  who  declined 
it,  and,  apparently  insulted  by  the  offer,  went  and 
sat  over  at  the  other  end  of  the  boat  by  himself. 

George  requested  that  we  would  not  talk  about 
these  things,  at  all  events,  till  he  had  finished  his 
cold  boiled  beef  without  mustard. 

We  played  penny  nap  after  supper.  We  played 
for  about  an  hour  and  a  half,  by  the  end  of 
which  time  George  had  won  fourpence — George 
always  is  lucky  at  cards — and  Harris  and  I  had 
lost  exactly  twopence  each. 

We  thought  we  would  give  up  gambling  then. 
As  Harris  said,  it  breeds  an  unhealthy  excitement 
when  carried  too  far.  George  offered  to  go  on 
and  give  us  our  revenge;  but  Harris  and  I  de¬ 
cided  not  to  battle  any  further  against  Fate. 

After  that,  we  mixed  ourselves  some  toddy, 
and  sat  round  and  talked.  George  told  us  about 
*.  man  he  had  known  who  had  come  up  the  river 
cwn  years  ago,  and  who  had  slept  out  in  a  damp 


Qftxcc  gsXjetx  in  a  goat. 


289 


boat  on  just  such  another  night  as  that  was,  and 
it  had  given  him  rheumatic  fever,  and  nothing 
was  able  to  save  him,  and  he  died  in  great  agony 
ten  'days  afterward.  George  said  he  was  quite  a 
young  man,  and  was  engaged  to  be  married. 
He  said  it  was  one  of  the  saddest  things  he  had 
ever  known. 

And  that  put  Harris  in  mind  of  a  friend  of  his, 
who  had  been  in  the  Volunteers,  and  who  had 
slept  out  under  canvas  one  wet  night  down  at 
Aldershot,  “on  just  such  another  night  as  this,” 
said  Harris,  and  he  had  woke  up  in  the  morning 
a  cripple  for  life.  Harris  said  he  would  introduce 
us  both  to  the  man  when  he  got  back  to  town; 
it  would  make  our  hearts  bleed  to  see  him. 

This  naturally  led  to  some  pleasant  chat  about 
sciatica,  fevers,  chills,  lung  diseases,  and  bron¬ 
chitis;  and  Harris  said  how  very  awkward  it 
would  be  if  one  of  us  were  taken  seriously  ill  in 
the  night,  seeing  how  far  away  we  were  from  a 
doctor. 

There  seemed  to  be  a  desire  for  something  frol¬ 
icsome  to  follow  upon  this  conversation,  and  in 
a  weak  moment  I  suggested  that  George  should 
get  out  his  banjo,  and  see  if  he  could  not  give 
us  a  comic  song. 

I  will  say  for  George  that  he  did  not  want  any 
pressing.  There  was  no  nonsense  about  having 


290 


gjtojcjc  pUu  in  a  32  oat. 


left  his  music  at  home,  or  anything  of  that  sort, 
He  at  once  fished  out  his  instrument,  and  com¬ 
menced  to  play  “Two  Lovely  Black  Eyes.” 

I  had  always  regarded  “Two  Lovely  Black 
Eyes”  as  rather  a  commonplace  tune,  until  that 
evening.  The  rich  vein  of  sadness  that  George 
extracted  from  it  quite  surprised  me. 

The  desire  that  grew  upon  Harris  and  myself, 
as  the  mournful  strains  progressed,  was  to  fall 
upon  each  other’s  necks  and  weep ;  but  by  great 
effort  we  kept  back  the  rising  tears,  and  listened 
to  the  wild  yearnful  melody  in  silence. 

When  the  chorus  came  we  made  a  desperate 
effort  to  be  merry.  We  refilled  our  glasses  and 
joined  in;  Harris,  in  a  voice  trembling  with  emo¬ 
tion,  leading,  and  George  and  I  following  a  few 
words  behind: 

“Two  lovely  black  eyes; 

Oh!  what  a  surprise! 

Only  for  telling  a  man  he  was  wrong, 

Two—” 

There  we  broke  down.  The  unutterable  pathos 
of  George’s  accompaniment  to  that  “two”  we 
were,  in  our  then  state  of  depression,  unable,  to 
bear.  Harris  sobbed  like  a  little  child,  and  the 
dog  howled  till  I  thought  his  heart  or  his  jaw 
must  surely  break. 


Qftxzz  fptjet*  in  a  gxrat. 


291 


George  wanted  to  go  on  with  another  verse. 
He  thought  when  he  had  got  a  little  more  into 
the  tune,  and  could  throw  more  “abandon/’  as 
it  were,  into  the  rendering,  it  might  not  seem  so 
sad.  The  feeling  of  the  majority,  however,  was 
opposed  to  the  experiment. 

There  being  nothing  else  to  do,  we  went  to  bed, 
— that  is,  we  undressed  ourselves,  and  tossed 
about  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat  for  some  three 
or  four  hours.  After  which,  we  managed  to  get 
some  fitful  slumber  until  five  a.  m.,  when  we  all 
got  up  and  had  breakfast. 

The  second  day  was  exactly  like  the  first.  The 
rain  continued  to  pour  down,  and  we  sat,  wrap¬ 
ped  up  in  our  mackintoshes,  underneath  the  can¬ 
vas,  and  drifted  slowly  down. 

One  of  us — I  forget  which  one  now,  but  I 
rather  think  it  was  myself — made  a  few  feeble  at- 

V 

tempts  during  the  course  of  the  morning  to  work 
up  the  old  gypsy  foolishness  about  being  children 
of  Nature  and  enjoying  the  wet;  but  it  did  not  go 
down  well  at  all.  That— 

“I  care  not  for  the  rain,  not  I!” 

was  so  painfully  evident,  as  expressing  the  senti¬ 
ments  of  each  of  us,  that  to  sing  it  seCTfted  un¬ 
necessary. 

On  one  point  we  were  all  agreed,  and  that  was 


292 


'ghxzz  g&jett  in  a 


that,  come  wliat  might,  we  would  go  through  with 
this  job  to  the  bitter  end.  We  had  come  out  for 
a  fortnight’s  enjoyment  on  the  river,  and  a  fort* 
night’s  enjoyment  on  the  river  we  meant  to  have. 
If  it  killed  us !  well,  that  would  be  a  sad  thing  for 
our  friends  and  relations,  but  it  could  not  be 
helped.  We  felt  that  to  give  in  to  the  weather 
in  a  climate  such  as  ours  would  be  a  most  dis¬ 
astrous  precedent. 

“It’s  only  two  days  more,”  said  Harris,  “and 
we  are  young  and  strong.  We  may  get  over  it 
all  right,  after  all.” 

At  about  four  o’clock  we  began  to  discuss  our 
arrangements  for  the  evening.  We  were  a  little 
past  Goring  then,  and  we  decided  to  paddle  on  to 
Pangbourne,  and  put  up  there  for  the  night. 

“Another  jolly  evening!”  murmured  George. 

We  sat  and  mused  on  the  prospect.  We  should 
be  in  at  Pangbourne  by  five.  We  should  finish 
dinner  at,  say,  half-past  six.  After  that  we  could 
walk  about  the  village  in  the  pouring  rain  until 
bed-time ;  or  we  could  sit  in  a  dimly-lit  bar-parlor 
and  read  the  almanac. 

“Why,  the  Alhambra  would  be  almost  more 
lively,”  said  Harris,  venturing  his  head  outside 
the  cover  for  a  moment  and  taking  a  survey  of 
the  sky. 


298 


put*  in  a  gxrat 

‘With  a  little  supper  at  the  — — *  to  follow,”  I 
added,  half  unconsciously. 

“Yes,  it’s  almost  a  pity  we’ve  made  up  our 
minds  to  stick  to  this  boat,’’  answered  Harris; 
and  then  there  was  silence  for  a  while. 

“If  we  hadn’t  made  up  our  minds  to  contract 
our  certain  deaths  in  this  bally  old  coffin,”  ob¬ 
served  George,  casting  a  glance  of  intense 
malevolence  over  the  boat,  “it  might  be  worth 
while  to  mention  that  there’s  a  tram  leaves  Pang- 
bourne,  I  know,  soon  after  five,  which  would  just 
land  us  in  town  in  comfortable  time  to  get  a 
chop,  and  then  go  on  to  the  place  you  mentioned 
afterward.” 

Nobody  spoke.  We  looked  at  one  another, 
and  each  one  seemed  to  see  his  own  mean  and 
guilty  thoughts  reflected  in  the  faces  of  the  oth¬ 
ers.  In  silence,  we  dragged  out  and  overhauled 
the  Gladstone.  We  looked  up  the  river  and 
<iown  the  river;  not  a  soul  was  in  sight! 

Twenty  minutes  later,  three  figures,  followed 
by  a  shamed  looking  dog,  might  have  been  seen 
creeping  stealthily  from  the  boat-house  at  the 

*A  capital  little  out-of-the-way  restaurant,  in  the 

neighborhood  of  - ,  where  you  can  get  one  of  the 

best-cooked  and  cheapest  little  French  dinners  or  sup¬ 
pers  that  I  know  of,  with  an  excellent  bottle  of  Beaune*, 
for  three-and-six;  and  which  I  am  not  going  to  b# 
idiot  enough  to  advertise. 


flm  in  a  JBoixi. 


“Swan’’  toward  the  railway  station,  dressed  in  ths 
following  neither  neat  nor  gaudy  costume: 

Black  leather  shoes,  dirty;  suit  of  boating  flan¬ 
nels,  very  dirty;  brown  felt  hat,  much  battered; 
mackintosh,  very  wet;  umbrella. 

We  had  deceived  the  boatman  at  Pangbourne. 
W e  had  not  had  the  face  to  tell  him  that  we  were 
running  away  from  the  rain.  We  had  left  the 
boat,  and  all  it  contained,  in  his  charge,  with 
ii  structions  that  it  was  to  be  ready  for  us  at  nine 
the  next  morning.  If,  we  said — if  anything  un- 
f  yreseen  should  happen,  preventing  our  return, 
\  would  write  to  him. 

We  reached  Paddington  at  seven,  and  drove 
direct  to  the  restaurant  I  have  before  described, 
where  we  partook  of  a  light  meal,  left  Mont¬ 
morency,  together  with  suggestions  for  a  supper 
to  be  ready  at  half-past  ten,  and  then  continued 
our  way  to  Leicester  Square. 

We  attracted  a  good  deal  of  attention  at  the 
Alhambra.  On  our  presenting  ourselves  at  the 
pay-box  we  were  gruffly  directed  to  go  round  to 
Castle  Street,  and  were  informed  that  we  were 
half  an  hour  behind  our  time. 

We  convinced  the  man,  with  some  difficulty, 
that  we  were  not  “the  world-renowned  contor¬ 
tionists  from  the  Himalaya  Mountains,”  and  he 
took  our  money  and  let  us  pass. 


QUxzz  | %izn  in  a  |Scrat. 


295 


Inside  we  were  still  a  greater  success.  Our 
line,  bronzed  countenances  and  picturesque 
clothes  were  followed  round  the  place  with  admir¬ 
ing  gaze.  We  were  the  cynosure  of  every  eye. 

It  was  a  proud  moment  for  us  all. 

We  adjourned  soon  after  the  first  ballet,  and 
wended  our  way  back  to  the  restaurant,  where 
supper  was  already  awaiting  us. 

I  must  confess  to  enjoying  that  supper.  For 
about  ten  days  we  seemed  to  have  been  living, 
more  or  less,  on  nothing  but  cold  meat,  cake,  and 
bread  and  jam.  It  had  been  a  simple,  a  nutritious 
diet;  but  there  had  been  nothing  exciting  about 
it,  and  the  odor  of  Burgundy,  and  the  smell  of 
French  sauces,  and  the  sight  of  clean  napkins, 
and  long  loaves,  knocked  as  a  very  welcome  vis¬ 
itor  at  the  door  of  our  inner  man. 

We  pegged  and  quaffed  away  in  silence  for  a 
while,  until  the  time  came  when,  instead  of  sitting 
bolt  upright,  and  grasping  the  knife  and  fork 
firmly,  we  leant  back  in  our  chairs,  and  worked 
slowly  and  carelessly — when  we  stretched  out 
our  legs  beneath  the  table,  let  our  napkins  fall, 
unheeded,  to  the  floor,  and  found  time  to  more 
critically  examine  the  smoky  ceiling  than  we  had 
hitherto  been  able  to  do — when  we  rested  our 
glasses  at  arm’s-length  upon  the  table,  and  felt 
good,  and  thoughtful,  and  forgiving. 


296 


ghxzz  Ufcjet*  in  a  gxrat. 


Then  Harris,  who  was  sitting  next  the  win¬ 
dow,  drew  aside  the  curtain  and  looked  out  upon 

the  street. 

It  glistened  darkly  in  the  wet,  the  dim  lamps 
flickered  with  each  gust,  the  rain  splashed  stead¬ 
ily  inVD  the  puddle  and  trickled  down  the  water¬ 
spout  into  the  running  gutters.  A  few  soaked 
wayfarers  hurried  past,  crouching  beneath  their 
dripping  umbrellas,  the  women  holding  up  their 
skirts. 

“W ell,”  said  Harris,  reaching  his  hand  out  for 
his  glass,  “we  have  had  a  pleasant  trip,  and  my 
hearty  thanks  for  it  to  old  Father  Thames — but 
I  think  we  did,  well  to  chuck  it  when  we  did. 
Here’s  to  Three  Men  well  out  of  a  Boat!” 

And  Montmorency,  standing  on  his  hind  legs 
before  the  window,  peering  out  into  the  night, 
gave  a  short  bark  of  decided  concurrence  with 
the  toast 


THE  END. 


